The Way It Should Have Been
by Julibee-Darling
Summary: In the infinite spread of lighthouses...there had to be one where things were different. - BookBeth pairing. This is my mostly-canon retelling of Bioshock Infinite, but with the ending and approach I feel should have been taken. Rated M for adult-rated content.
1. Guns for the Lady: Shantytown

**AN: Hello everyone! **

**Okay, first and foremost, until Bioshock Infinite, ****I have NEVER encountered a canon couple in anything that I liked enough to write fanfiction/draw fanart for. All of the fanfics I've submitted here over the years all have an OC in them for the male character I most admire (yeah I'm a loser, moving on). And **like every romance-junkie that fell madly in love with Bioshock Infinite, I spent the ENTIRE game wishing, cheering, screaming, PANICKING over Booker and Elizabeth. I wanted them together SO BADLY. I had delusional fantasies of Booker and Elizabeth running away to Paris and opening up a casino at the end. So when the big-reveal happened...I wasn't pleased. One little bit. I was a basket-case of anger and depression for DAYS afterwards.  


**So I started thinking. And researching. And noticed I don't seem to be the only one who feels Booker and Elizabeth should have ended up together. This fanfic will contain all of my energy and feelings for this couple. Anybody who cries "EEW, INCEST!" will be ignored. I'm not in it for the reviews or the trolls. I'm exercising a God-damn demon.  
**

**So, thank you for taking the time to read this. As a guideline, I will only be rewriting the chapters relevant to my story. It can safely be assumed that anything I don't cover occurs as-is in the game.**

**I also want to take a moment to give a shout-out thank-you to Bite-of-Biscuit, my oldest friend, writing partner, and the world's greatest editor/beta reader. She is always kind enough to lend her legendary skills to edit my drab litelse fantasies. :) **

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**Guns for the Lady **

As it had been dealing with the worker riots in Portland, the everyday world of Columbia's working class was a far cry from the clear-aired, alabaster splendor of Monument Island and Soldier's Field. But once again, Columbia's extremes were enough to make Booker DeWitt take pause. A small, but noticeable cord inside of him had been struck the moment he and Elizabeth had stepped off the carpet-lined elevator from the Worker's Induction hall, which connected the polished, orderly structures of Finkton Manufacturing to the Plaza of Zeal.

The Plaza was a sprawling, dilapidated ring that circled a network of high buildings with a a centerpiece of warehouses. But the true eyesore was an enourmous stage, garish as red at a funeral, that was placed at the foremost part of the neighborhood. It was an auctioneer's platform, decorated with the traditional studded lights and obnoxious, ever-present patriotic drapery of Columbia. Booker gathered the bidding wars here were not over goods; a wooden wall as wide as the stage had been built behind a podium, and shone with brass plates engraved with employment categories.

He put those thoughts aside to further glance about the plaza. Time was slowly ravaging the old, brick buildings that had most likely been the floating city's very first structures. Hard, relentless use from a large population had rendered the area to a lackluster district, with time's wounds to the windows and walls ineffectively bandaged by brittle scrap wood.

Booker and Elizabeth's search for Chen Lin's gunshop had been mercifully short. Unfortunately their luck hadn't extended to dealing with the following madness. They'd spent the remainder of the day locating the imprisoned gunsmith, only to find his mangled, bloody corpse in the depths of a prison basement. At least Elizabeth's unusual talents provided them with a second opportunity to meet with Chen Lin. But time was going against them; the golden-red hues of evening sun had long since disappeared when they crossed into the unlocked gates of the Shantytown ghetto.

Booker watched Elizabeth from his peripheral vision as she leaned heavily against the filthy wall of a short tunnel nearby. He could tell she was exhausted - her ashen face was covered with grimy smudges**,** her eyes glassy, bloodshot, and the irises standing out like watery blue gems.

She wasn't the only one either; Booker didn't need a mirror to know he was every bit as haggard and worn down as she was. He dipped his fingers into the breast pocket of his vest and produced a silver pocket watch. A practiced flip of his thumb sent the lid upwards, revealing the simple, black and white face within. The elegant needle-thin arms crept closer to midnight, and he knew they would need to find a place to rest soon.

"The man said the police impound was off the Bull Yard," Elizabeth said, gesturing towards the street that connected with the tunnel's opposite side. "But there's a bar over there...Maybe we can check for supplies?"

Booker shook his head and tucked his watch away. "We've gone as far as we can today. We need to find a safe place."

Elizabeth looked around, her eyebrows drawing together in a thoughtful knit. "Where?"

"We'll find somewhere. In the mean time, we'll go check that place out," Booker replied, pointing towards the end of the street. Elizabeth followed his finger to the bar, which was located across a small, empty courtyard at the base of a staircase. She nodded, covering a yawn with the back of her hand as she moved away from the wall and fell into step beside Booker as they started for the other side of the street.

Elizabeth paused halfway up the street. Realizing she was no longer beside him a few steps too late, Booker craned his head over his shoulder and immediately saw what had captured her attention. It was an old Columbia propaganda poster that had been vandalized. Although the parchment's original photographs had faded and its edges were frayed and peeling, the ugly, red letters that had been painted across it stood out like a bloodstain.

Seed of the Prophet? Whatever you call her, we don't need her.

Booker's gaze slid to Elizabeth. With her shoulders tense and weary face somber, she was clearly disturbed by the sign. It was her hand that made his heart clench tightly; her thumb brushed over the pads of her middle and index fingers while she absently flexed her wrist. The gesture was subtle and feminine, yet it hit him as soundly as a punch in the gut.

Her voice was a soft whisper when she finally spoke. "I read all about men who enslaved the people they were supposed to lead and made themselves rich while the rest starved. I hated them. I couldn't understand how they lived with themselves. And I see I'm the one to blame for the suffering of so many..." she trailed off, her head dropping low as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

"You know that isn't true," Booker said, experiencing a flash of base, masculine panic at her obvious distress. "Jeremiah Fink is the bastard running this circus, and Comstock condones it because he pushes all his goddamn Prophet propaganda. You're not involved with-"

"I am involved, Mr. DeWitt. My father wanted me to carry on his... legacy, and he made sure everyone in Columbia knew it. I'm sure he used Fink in every way he could to keep me in that tower...and look what Fink did to make himself useful." Elizabeth gestured to the bleak ghetto crowding around them. Her chest heaved from the force of her breath and she wrapped her arms around herself again, a shattered vase holding the crystal-clear fragments together.

Booker inwardly cursed. He despised women's tears, as he assumed any man did. But behind that, he felt himself responding to Elizabeth's growing despair and her unwitting role in Comstock's wretched plans. His history as a Pinkerton agent had rendered him detached and unaffected to the symptoms of an impoverished workforce. But Elizabeth had genuine sympathy for the people's deplorable living conditions under Fink's pious rule. Booker knew from personal experience that harboring those feelings would get you killed, but asking her to put it aside was akin to asking her to change the color of her eyes. Despite her lonely upbringing, she was the sort of woman who had kindness and compassion woven into her soul, as much a part of her as white feathers on a dove.

"Elizabeth," he said, gentle as he carefully laid a hand between her shoulder blades. "You can't think like that."

She kept her eyes planted on the ground as her body began to sway. Instinctually he moved, stepping in front of her and catching her arms in a firm grip. But she was too absorbed in her melancholy and, coupled with her exhaustion, the momentum brought her body against his.

Booker's breath hitched as his grip tightened to keep her afoot. His body froze, with the exception of his heart thundering against his sternum. Beneath the soft texture of her ruined blouse's cotton was the slender frame of her shoulders, the muscles trembling with subtle quivers. The sensation jarred the pointed reminder that he had not held a woman like this in years - like lifting the first hand of cards from a new, crisp deck at the start of a poker game. Booker tried to look down at her, but the brush of her silky, dark-brown hair on the underside of his chin, her forehead resting upon his collar, severed all connection between his body and mind.

With every second his blood grew warmer, the sensation striking with an acute, addictive sweetness he'd almost forgotten**.** The linen of his shirt and necktie absorbed the flurry of her uneven breathing, turning the fabric beneath her lips hot as her fingers twisted around the lapels of his dark gray vest.

"Elizabeth..." Booker murmured, his voice a strained whisper as she took in an enormous breath and sunk even closer to him, forcing him to widen his stance to keep her from pressing her hips fully against his. In that moment he nearly let go of her shoulders, the nerves in his fingers longing to slide across the planes of her back and pull her closer.

The quiet sigh she released sparked him worse than the after-effects of drinking Shock Jocky. Mercilessly, it cut through the layers of his clouded mind with the ice-cold stab of reality. He swore through clenched teeth and pushed her upright, leaving his hands on her shoulders just long enough to be sure she wouldn't collapse. He turned and walked a few paces from her, rubbing his palm hard over his face and taking a steadying breath.

God damn it all, he was an indecent man - although he wasn't ancient by any means of the imagination, thirty-seven and still the object of some attraction, if the murmurs of Columbia's women were to be believed. The world didn't exactly frown on drastic age differences either, as long as the woman was at least eighteen, but Elizabeth? A lifetime of solitary confinement, save for books on every subject and a flying mechanical beast, had installed a bizarre mixture of worldly intelligence and naïveté in her. She most likely understood the concepts of the act, but strictly from a perspective of reproduction. Booker doubted she was aware of the kind of havoc her closeness had wrecked on his body as she struggled to master her emotions. Therefore, any involvement beyond his assumed role as protector-transporter would be beyond reprehensible, even to his standards.

"M-Mr. DeWitt?"

He winced at her uncertain, apologetic tone. She had nothing to be sorry for - the fault was entirely his.

"Let's go," Booker said and, without a glance backward, resumed walking towards the sunken courtyard. Elizabeth said nothing more and followed him down the cracked, concrete staircase that connected the main street to the small quadrangle the entrance of the bar occupied.

The Graveyard Shift was as dismal a place as the rest of Shantytown. With a critical glance around, Booker surmised that it occupied the last inhabitable section of a warehouse that had long since been condemned, even by the destitute standards of Fink's workforce. The entrance had been carved out of the service-delivery area, with just enough wiring strung above it to power a fluorescent blue-green sign with the bar's name. The door itself was in even worse condition, constructed entirely of marred scrap wooden planks, discolored by the elements.

Booker reached out and carefully grasped the grimy brass bar that served as a handle. He glanced over his shoulder, finding Elizabeth on his heels and ready.

"Let me handle any talking," he said, receiving an agreeable murmur to the statement as he pulled door open, the muscles in his arm flexing harder than he'd anticipated.

Booker stepped inside first and held the door open for Elizabeth, who followed gracefully inside. On instinct, he gazed about the bar and found the exits and windows for a quick escape while noting anyone that may have taken an interest in their presence. To his relief, the Graveyard Shift was a single room with a scuffed tack floor covered with a moldering, paper-thin carpet. Aside from the long line of the bar, there were only five tables, four of which revolved around a long, rectangular center cluttered with half-empty bottles, an in-progress poker game, and a machete standing erect upon the table, the blade sunk deep into the wood. The only person who took any remote interest in their arrival was the grizzled owner, who was idly passing a filthy rag over the bar's surface. The rest of the patrons were presumably regulars, absorbed in the card game going on at the center table or drunkenly snoozing in their seats.

Booker jerked his head towards the wall, where a trio of Columbian automan dispensers were set up. Unlike the ones elsewhere in the Floating City, these were in dire need of repairs and maintenance. Someone had also removed the machines' phonographs, rendering their trumpeting announcements silent. But they were powered, their mechanical arms twitching disjointedly as the lightbulbs in their eyes and frames flickered erratically. They were the first functioning kind he'd seen since arriving in Shantytown with some hope of being useful.

"Go see if any of those automan have something we need," Booker said quietly, carefully passing Elizabeth a handful of Silver Eagles. She nodded and walked over to the machines, taking care not to disturb anyone she passed.

Making eye-contact with the bartender, Booker crossed the room with soft but purposeful strides. With the practiced ease only a haunted man could possess, he took a seat on one of the rickety wooden stools and gestured for the barman to come over.

"Don't want no trouble, Mister..." he said, bending over long enough to retrieve a wide-barreled shotgun from under the counter.

"Neither do I," Booker replied, his hands lifted in a surrendering gesture.

"So what do you want?" the man grunted, shifting a smoldering, three-inch long stogie to the corner of his mouth. Accustomed to the smoke, Booker leaned on his forearms and tilted his head to avoid direct inhalation of the noxious fumes.

"You always greet your customers like this?"

"Just the ones that clearly aren't from this side of the elevators. So, what do you want?"

"I need a place for the night."

"What?" the barkeep returned the gun to the shadows under the counter.

"You heard me," Booker said, his voice lowered as he glanced at the right wall's door. "The girl and I need to disappear for a few hours."

Realization crossed the barkeep's face, and he casually stole a look at Elizabeth while he reached for one of the chipped shot glasses stacked nearby.

"I'm not running a cathouse, son; you'll have to take your dame elsewhere."

Booker's eyes narrowed at the suggestion, but he chose not to make it a dispute and instead reached into the back right pocket of his pants to retrieve the clump of Eagle bills. The transaction he was about to make was one he'd made plenty of times before in other parts of the world, but never when another was depending so much on him.

"Just looking for a safe place for the lady to sleep. We'll be gone when the sun comes up," Booker said, flicking the edges of four five-dollar bills away from the fold and fanning them for the barkeep. "That's for the use of your basement, provided no one else is down there."

Booker resisted the urge to allow any sort of break in his expression as he watched the barkeep eye the money. He was remarkably composed, although his eyes had widened at the amount. Booker wondered how Fink had managed to enslave such a huge workforce if twenty silver eagles was enough to tempt a booze-slinger. But he wasn't totally convinced it would be enough to ensure the man's silence either; he added another two bills to the fan.

"That's for your trouble. And that's to make sure you understand that no one's ever seen us before."

A line of sweat beaded along the barman's forehead. He was making an effort to not draw the room's attention - it had likely been years since he'd seen so much money in one place, and ifnoticed, very likely to cause a riot.

Another two bills were added. "This is to get her something decent to eat, some hot water and soap. And a razor."

"I hear you, Mister. Basement's yours for the night. I may have all the rest in the back..."

A glinting yellow hue on the liquor shelf caught Booker's attention. He squinted at the formation of dusty, half-empty bottles and recognized the triangular silhouette of a Lutece Infusion bottle.

Unnerved by his sudden silence, the barman asked quietly, "See something else you like, Mister?"

Booker jabbed his smallest finger at the shelf. "I'll take the Lutece Infusion."

"...those ain't easy to come by. What're you willing to pay for it?"

Booker scowled and produced a final five dollar bill and folded it into the roll in his hand before holding it out to make a discreet exchange with a handshake. The barkeep took hold eagerly, although his gleeful expression was cut short when Booker tightened his fingers to a knuckle-crushing grip.

"We were never here. If I have any trouble from this moment until we walk away, I'll break every bone in your face and drown you in that barrel of piss you call whiskey."

"Yessir...never saw you," the man hissed, his bloodshot eyes watering as he struggled not to squirm. Satisfied, Booker released the barman and turned to find Elizabeth. She was bent over the dispension box of the Dollar Bill, one hand feeling around its depths. A large bottle of Invigorating Salts, a Health Tonic, and two boxes of ammunition were tucked in the crook of her other arm. Beaming as she found a third box of bullets, Elizabeth straightened and hurried across the room to Booker. He nodded once in approval, relieved to see that there had been a few supplies in the old automan. He took the newly acquired Lutece Infusion from the barkeep and added it to the collection in her arms.

"Lead the way," Booker said to the barman. Elizabeth gave him a questioning look, but thankfully kept silent as they followed their host across the room to the curtained door. Beyond the cobweb-draped frame was a short, unlit corridor that connected the bar's main parlor to a platform, open-sided staircase.

"It's just down those stairs...Make yourselves at home. I'll be a minute to get the rest of things..."

"Booker?" Elizabeth asked, worriedly watching the barkeep bustle away.

"Don't worry. He just agreed to let us camp in his basement until the sun comes up."

"He's okay with just...Letting us in like this?"

"Trust me, I made it worth his while," Booker muttered as he drew one of the Paddywhacker Hand Canons from the holsters on his belt and approached the top of the staircase.

"Be careful..."

Booker nodded as he pulled the gun's filigreed trigger back and approached the top of the steps. This wasn't the first improvised campsite he had bribed himself into; he learned much from slumming during the Battle of Wounded Knee, including to never enter a campsite without a weapon raised.

The high, industrial-sized windows on the opposite wall let no outside light in, leaving the room to be illuminated by a trio of ceiling fans set with dull, fluorescent lights. Booker gestured for Elizabeth to stay before he fully turned the corner, the gleaming Paddywhacker raised. As he had done when they'd entered the bar, Booker surveyed the basement. Like the prison chambers in the Good Times Club, the room was a gloomy, dank space in the flotilla's bowel. The bare stone walls were covered in large,grimy wooden shelves, unsteady with their loads of beer barrels, forgotten oddities, and scraps of empty produce crates. The room was partially divided by an additional set of barrel racks and a support beam Booker judged to be rotting.

The staircase creaked and moaned loudly with every step Booker took. When he reached the center platform there was a bump and a sudden scuffling noise. Booker looked down in time to see a filthy scrap-of-a-boy with an apple clutched in his hands dive around his legs and sprint away. When the quiet returned he rolled his shoulders and walked down the rest of the stairs. An expedient search revealed no other occupants, freeing him to take a closer look. On one side of the shelf was a pair of rickety wooden chairs with a crate between them. On its surface sat a flickering oil lantern and beside it an acoustic guitar, precariously balanced against a chair**.** Behind the whole setup was a filthy mattresshalf-buriedin a pallet of straw. Beyond the divider stood a vast, deep sink, its faucet a constant pitter of dropping water, and a pile of wool blankets.

"It's clear," Booker called as he holstered the Paddywacker**. **Elizabeth arrived at the foot of the steps and placed her inventory on the crate with what he could only describe as a controlled spill. The glass of the Lutece Infusion, Invigorating Salts, and Health Tonic clinked as they were jostled into place beside the boxes of ammunition. She heaved a shallow breath and combed her fingers through the loose strands of hair that had escaped its limp, silk ribbon.

Booker heard the barman coming back down the steps and turned to face him. The man's expression was carefully blank as he held up a box filled with the additional items he'd been bribed for. After a quick inspection, Booker took the small crate with a nod. The barkeep put his hands together in a brief, universal gesture of thanks and walked back up the steps.

"Sink on the other side of the room's got hot water."

Elizabeth watched him vanish into the hallway at the top of the steps before peering into the box in Booker's hands.

"What's all that?"

"Couple extra supplies for the night," he replied, plucking up the brick of soap and handing it to her.

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, her features bright under the dirt as she darted to the other side of the room, her boots kicked away in impatience as she twisted on the faucet. Booker stifled a chuckle at the sounds of feminine, euphoric sighing as the footwear hit the floor with dull thuds.

Elizabeth's knees nearly buckled as her feet touched the floor. Every nerve and tendon in her legs vibrated with aggravated nerves, thankful to have the curse of the heels shucked aside. Women's footwear were simply not constructed to be worn while spending prolonged hours participating in gun fights, zip lining on sky rails, and escaping armed, religious zealots.

She flexed her toes, frowning at the small hole that had formed in the heel her stocking. Not that there was any help for it, or the rest of her ruined clothing. She brought her hand up to the wide gash in her sleeve, her fingers tugging at the dangling scrap of cotton. A less intense version of the hot, tight sensation she'd felt when she'd seen the two-way mirrors in her tower was starting to form in her chest. Despite never wanting to return to that place, she wished she could go to her dresser and get a fresh change of clothes and take a long, hot soak in a bath. The desires puzzled her greatly - was the feeling some form of vanity?

Elizabeth sighed and leaned back against the tub-like sink as the tepid water began to run warm at last. She'd considered herself versed in psychology, the meanings, and descriptions of emotions and thought she'd experienced enough of them all to tell them apart. How arrogant and foolish that thought seemed now; every hour spent outside her gilded prison made the stormy chaos in her heart blow faster and harder.

She looked across the ramshackle divider, where Booker had sunk into one of the chairs by the crate. Her heart seized with a rush of bittersweet compassion. Booker DeWitt was a haunted wreck of a man, betrayed by the shroud of anguish that clouded him when no others thought to look. From what little she had gleaned of his past during their misadventure, Booker spent years leading a difficult life. Granted, he'd brought some of his struggles on himself; she had enough sense to know gambling and drinking were long, inevitable roads to a dark, inescapable place. He'd chosen to do those things, whether out of grief for his deceased wife and stillborn child, to drown his guilt for the countless deaths he was responsible for, or simply because one habit naturally followed the other.

Elizabeth stripped off her stockings and draped them over the rim of the sink and decided that she would try not to judge him. The burden of the deep scars he carried were punishment enough.

She glanced around the area of the sink as she tore the string and brown paper off the soap brick Booker had given her. A pile of semi-folded wool blankets were heaped beside an empty barrel and there was a dusty, chipped basin on the shelf in the divider.

"You know, with some creativity, I'll bet we could get pretty close to a bath."

"By all means, be creative."

Elizabeth grinned as she picked up the basin and put it beneath the water stream and turned to the barrel. A quick inspection revealed it to be empty, and she seized it with both hands. Luckily its weight wasn't unmanageable and she was able to push it around to the front of the sink. She grinned and hoisted herself onto the barrel, pulling and tugging her skirts and petticoat layers until they were gathered up in her lap. With her legs bare, Elizabeth lowered her feet into the sink and leaned forward to pick up the basin. She poured the dusty water out of the cracked ceramic dish and began to refill it, holding the bar of soap beneath the faucet with her free hand. As spartan as it was, the frothy lather felt like a celestial cloud against her skin as she began to drop handfuls of it over her shins and feet.

Elizabeth glanced over at Booker again. He had changed seats, tactfully angling it so his back was completely turned to her. She could feel her cheeks heating at the implication, but that was immediately overrun with gratitude. Booker DeWitt wasn't exactly the knight-in-shining-armor the fairy tales and ladies periodicals described as the ideal hero. His laundry list of flaws...the extreme self-loathing, brusque manners, and jaded outlook on life were enough to mark him as a villain in that confectionary literature. In her eyes it was offset by his physical and mental strengths to adapt in dangerous situations and the biochemical effects of Vigor potions. His courage was a hard-won supplement that stemmed from those ordeals, and so was his profound common sense. She knew that the Songbird would succeed in taking her back to her father and the Monument Tower if anyone other than Booker DeWitt had been the one to free her.

Elizabeth chose to take further advantage of the soap, warm water and semi-privacy. Once she had taken care of her legs, feet, and stockings, she tugged her blouse from her skirt's waistline and undid the tiny pearl buttons. Leaving the ragged material on, she cleaned her face, neck, chest, and underarms. The wool blanket on the top of the pile was used as a makeshift towel and set aside. With most of the past two day's filth and sweat washed away at last, Elizabeth felt infinitely more relaxed and comfortable. She noticed an old comb among the bits and scraps as she draped her damp stockings on the edge of the divider shelf, and decided that using it wouldn't cause any harm. She picked it up and blew across the surface, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air.

"Thank-you again for the soap, Mr. DeWitt," she said as she meandered back into the main area of the room, reaching behind her head to untie her hair ribbon. Booker glanced up at her and waved off her gratitude with a nonchalant gesture.

"Booker...just Booker."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and smiled as she took the opposite seat from him and swept her hair around her right shoulder. She collected the mass of it and began to run the comb through the last five or so inches, adjusting the angle of the broken teeth when they hit a larger snare.

"What gave you the idea to do all of this?"

Booker heaved an exhausted sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck and brought a pack of cigarettes out of his left pocket. "I've had some experience finding places to get a few hours of shut-eye on the run."

"And bar basements are the ideal places?"

Booker smirked as he tore a match out of the paper book that was sitting beside the oil lantern. "For us...yes. The way Fink runs this place, no one is going to be poking around the local gin-joint until someone doesn't show up to work. By then we'll be back on the move."

Elizabeth nodded as a curl of fragrant, blue-gray smoke floated out of Booker's parted lips. "There's plenty of soap left if you would like to freshen up."

"I do need a shave," he said, passing a hand over the day-old beard covering his jaw. Elizabeth eyes caught the scrap of blue fabric she'd torn from her skirt and wrapped around the knife wound in his palm from the airship station. Since the incident, the fabric had turned stiff and discolored to an unsightly shade of dark maroon from the blood it had absorbed.

"How is your hand?"

Booker raised his wounded palm to the dim shaft of light above their heads and slowly flexed his fingers. The gesture was made with a visible effort, but his middle and ring fingers bent only somewhat - not that she was surprised, since the blade had gone right between the tendons of those fingers. "I'll be all right."

He dropped his hand back to his knee and gave her a slight, reassuring smile. Elizabeth returned it with a humoring nod, but didn't believe for a moment that the injury wasn't causing him pain. According the ladies periodicals and psychology texts, men were always reluctant to admit any sort of vulnerability or discomfort. At least that seemed to be holding true, right up to her misunderstanding about why the male species thought it was a necessity to begin with.

With the tangles in her hair smoothed out at last, Elizabeth retied the ribbon at the base of her neck and placed the comb on their makeshift table. She looked over their stockpile of items, wishing that the Dollar Bill automan upstairs had been stocked with a larger Health Tonic bottle. It would be better than nothing of course, and at least repair a little more of the torn flesh in his hand.

Their eyes met for a long, silent moment. Elizabeth immediately found herself caught in a strange kind of enthrallment as the seconds rolled by, feeling as if a swarm of butterflies had filled her stomach. Booker was a handsome man...so much so that none of the others in Columbia had looks she preferred over his. There was no comparison between their shingled, pomaded haircuts and meticulously groomed faces against Booker's roughish, dark green eyes and rumpled, side-swept hair.

Privately, Elizabeth admitted to herself that it was becoming more and more difficult to remember that Booker had no intention whatsoever to take her to Paris, as he'd promised back on the artificial beach on Monument Island. Those lies had been exposed during that terrible encounter on the First Lady Airship. He wanted to take her to New York and hand her over to...to someone...to pay off a huge gambling debt. She could only guess at who the someone was, why they wanted her, or even how they knew of her existence. Whoever they were, money was apparently no object - just as it had been for Comstock, and she had a lifetime of experience on how people like that treated their "investments." She would be alone, locked up, and hidden from the world again, with only the memories of her short jaunt at freedom to console herself with.

Yet, despite the knowledge of the terrible things Booker had done and was capable of doing, and the question of how they would part ways looming between them like a heavy morning fog, Elizabeth _still_ trusted him. She couldn't understand the reason why, or identify the subtle, warm feeling that accompanied it. Was it her first real attraction to a man, or a twisted psychological response in the form of an attachment to the one who had freed her? She had no way of knowing for sure, and at this time of night, she wasn't inclined to ponder the complications of their relationship. She would simply have to remember that at the end of the day, she would have to keep living as she always had - relying only on herself.

Elizabeth's focus shifted from the deep, mossy green color of his eyes to the scar that cut across his right eyebrow, partially hidden by the sweeping layers of his hair. She wondered where it had come from, but chose to not ask, seeing as most of her previous questions regarding his past were all related to sordid, painful memories he didn't want to discuss.

"You all right?"

"Oh...yes, I'm fine, thank-you," she replied, her heartbeat turning heavy as she glanced around their dim surroundings for something to retrain her gaze on. The guitar sitting between them seemed to anxiously await being noticed, it's neck surface covered with a dull sheen of fingerprints from frequent handling. The pear shaped body showed similar signs of hard use, with scuffs around the edges and the faded, indistinguishable remains of a painted motif. She reached over and touched the surface, carefully trailing her fingers down the taught, thick strings and causing them to squeak and vibrate.

Elizabeth gave Booker a sheepish grin as he raised a questioning eyebrow to her.

"Wish I could play... might dispel some of the gloom."

Booker's eyes gradually closed and he shook his head, his mouth breaking into a rueful smile as wrapped his fingers around the neck of the instrument and pulled it into his lap. Elizabeth clasped her fingers together and bit her lower lip to smother her excitement as he began to strum and pull the strings while his free hand twisted a few of the ivory knobs at the top of the guitar. She'd always wanted to learn how to play a string instrument, but like so many things she had studied in her library, what tools she received for the practical application of her studies had been entirely up to her jailers. The way his index finger and thumb moved over the strings was fascinating, in complete coordination with his other hand skirting back and forth over the instrument's neck. She realized that different notes were created when the strings on the neck were pressed down at even intervals, even prolonged when pushed upwards.

The gentle, twangy sounds were eventually organized into a melody Elizabeth easily recognized, and the soothing notes gradually filled the dismal room. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to release the impulse climbing up her throat, taking soft, long breath.

"_Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, Lord...by and by... Is a better home awaiting? In the sky? Oh, in...the sky..."_

Booker's eardrums pulsed with a rush of blood as he looked at Elizabeth. He hadn't expected her to start singing...but he also couldn't exactly account for why he began playing the damn guitar in the first place, considering he hadn't touched one since his career as a soldier had ended at Wounded Knee.

Booker watched his fingers strum and pluck the strings, trying to recall the soldier in his regiment that used to play a guitar during the long, dreary nights. There was a frustratingly blank place in his mind where the man's face and name should have been...all he could remember was how comforting the man's music was, and how he had pulled the guitar off the man's scalped, muddy corpse in the rainy aftermath of a battle. Booker had been the one to play the music that night...and the night after, and the night after, until he and the rest of the survivors all trudged away from the battlefields to go home.

_"There are loved ones...in the Glory...whose dear forms we often miss...when you close your...earthly story, will you join them in their bliss?"_

Booker's eyes drifted shut as Annabelle's face, or what remained that he could still remember, drifted to the forefront of his mind. He immediately forced the image away, but not before his heart tensed and...beat on as it always did. Nineteen years had had passed since Annabelle and his stillborn daughter's deaths - more than enough time for grief to be drowned in an ocean of alcohol and card games. He knew that eventually, the lingering impressions of her wavy black hair, her porcelain white skin, and almond brown eyes would completely vanish from his memory. If God existed and had any kind of mercy, Booker hoped he would see a small shred of it when he finally died - not to spare his wretched, blood-soaked soul, nothing could do that...but to make him forget Annabelle entirely before he crossed into Hell to pay for his sins.

_"In the joyous days of childhood...Oft they told of wond'rous love ...Pointed to the dying Saviour...Now they dwell with Him...above..." _

God...despite his comfortable, albeit brief childhood, Annabelle's unshakable faith, and religion being thrown in his face every waking moment, especially Columbia's Americana brand of Catholicism...Booker could never bring himself to _believe_ in any if it. The concept of God, the bible's teachings, the supposed endless mercy and forgiveness...it was all too damn good to be true.

_"Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, Lord...by and by... Is a better home awaiting? In the sky? Oh, in...the sky..."_

Booker considered himself damned even it all turned out to be exactly as the preachers said. Wounded Knee...if he could go back he would seize his sixteen year old self by the scruff of his neck and explain, while dunking his head repeatedly into a horse trough, that he wasn't a man, wouldn't be one for years, and had no business participating in a war just because he could.

That time had bred some savage part of himself into an uncontrollable demon, far worse than any Indian he'd slaughtered. Back then, Booker had reveled in the brutality of the kill and subsequent trophies...watching life fade away as he flayed skin and hair from his victims heads. Lucifer himself would have shunned the macabre belt he'd strung his prizes into. Worse was that Booker hadn't felt remorse for any of it until much later in his life, after Annabelle had passed and true adulthood set in…far too late for any kind of real hope or redemption.

_"You remember songs of heaven...Which you sang...with childish voice...Do you love the hymns they taught you? Or are your songs...of earth...your choice?"_

Elizabeth's voice came through the overwhelming tide of his thoughts, the gentle softness eroding Booker's bleak reflections like a burst of moonlight breaking through rainclouds. He looked at her and saw that she too, was lost in the song and her thoughts, her eyes closed and face tilted up to the ceiling. With most of the filth from their troubles washed off at last, she looked like an angel that had tumbled off a cloud.

Booker had never met anyone like her before - an otherworldly creature filled with innate kindness, selflessness, and compassion that possessed a terrifying, world-altering power. As far as he was concerned, if Elizabeth wanted to rule the earth, she could very well have it groveling at her feet. He'd known many men who would have done just that if they had her abilities...but she regarded them as a curse more than a means of world domination, and used them to dream or defend herself against bees.

_"One by one their...seats were emptied...one by one, they went away. Now the family...is parted...will it be complete one day?"_

Booker knew that he was becoming too involved with Elizabeth, but he would have to be heartless, blind, and cold-blooded to not be attracted to her beauty, intelligence, and adventurousness. Her delight was infectious, from her overzealous excitement for exploring and using a sky hook to ride Columbia's cargo rails, to the pleasure she took in trying confectionary sweets like cotton candy, caramel popcorn, and ice cream. She stubbornly held on to her optimism and hope for life, despite the terrible cards she had been dealt in her upbringing and her turbulent present circumstances - including the ones that he was responsible for.

_Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt._

The deal that had seemed like a God-send when it was made to him had turned into something far more dangerous and complicated. As hard as he fought it, Booker didn't want to give Elizabeth to anyone, especially whoever was willing to free him from his financial problems with Portland's kingpins. He could no longer envision the new life he had planned for himself without her, the dream now taking the shape of escaping Columbia and going on the lam to disappear in her dream-city...

_"Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, Lord...by and by... Is a better home awaiting? In the sky? Oh, in...the sky..."_

Elizabeth brought her hands up and ran her palms over her cheeks as the last handful of notes drifted into the shadows, hoping her blush wasn't noticeable. It had been the first time she'd ever knowingly sang in front of someone, and she was grateful that Booker hadn't seemed to mind it.

"You have a nice voice."

She raised an eyebrow as he leaned the guitar against the dividing shelf. He smirked and took the spent cigarette from his lips, the two-inch line of ash collapsing into the air as he dropped the smoldering butt to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.

"Its soft...soothing."

"Thank-you...I never would have guessed you could...play guitar..." she said through an immense yawn that required both hands to hide. The second wind from her makeshift bath was wearing thin, and the lead weight of exhaustion was quickly coming back to her. She leaned over her lap and rubbed her eyes as they began to burn with tired, salt-filled tears.

"Eat something and get some sleep. We only have a few hours until dawn."

Elizabeth shook her head as Booker got to his feet and stretched, lacing his fingers together and bending his palms outwards to crack his knuckles .

"I'm too tired to eat just now..."

He gestured to the bare mattress and straw pile behind the crate and chairs. "Try to sleep then. It probably won't be comfortable."

She glanced at the pitiful cot and shrugged. "I'm honestly so tired I don't think I'll notice."

Booker threw his head back and laughed, the sound deep and heartfelt, the first she'd ever heard from him. She beamed and began to giggle.

"What's so funny?"

Booker shook his head and walked to the other side of the room, curling his fingertips and scratching the back of his head until locks of his hair began to form a cowlick.

"Nothing, just...any other woman would have been howling with complaints by now."

"Oh..." she reached up and tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear before standing up and arching her back in a stretch. The top hem and boning of her corset dug into her skin, but her backbone and right shoulder released a soft, satisfying pop. She looked up upon hearing Booker whistle for her attention, and caught the mass of wool blanket that he had tossed at her. Murmuring her thanks, she turned and spread it across the expanse of mattress and straw, averting her eyes and mind from the possibility of rodents and insects.

Elizabeth sighed as she allowed her body to tumble onto the uneven cluster of surfaces. Thankfully the blankets weren't damp or unbearably musty-smelling. She took in a deep breath and shifted her position, trying to leave enough space for Booker, in case he chose to sleep as well.

She felt her heart go light at the idea - not that she objected to Booker getting some much-needed rest - she knew that he wouldn't hurt her, and she felt perfectly safe from outside intruders and the Songbird. No, the fluttering sensation in her chest she tentatively called self-consciousness was coming from the idea of him being sleeping so..._close_ to her.

Elizabeth craned her head so she could look up. From her place on the floor she could see Booker at the sink, his form dimly lit from the flickering light bulb above his head. He was pulling his shirt off over his head, having already discarded his holsters, necktie, and vest. She froze, unable to stop herself from watching - she'd never seen an unclothed man in person before, and although Booker still wore an undershirt, enough of his body was on display to pique her interest. He was built like a cast-iron statue, his muscles heavy and rippling with every movement. The sleeveless, low-cut undershirt revealed a broad chest, covered with a dustingoff dark hair and an intricate, black shape on his right bicep... a tattoo?

Wanting to avoid a potential, terribly awkward moment, Elizabeth forced herself to lower her head and close her eyes. She spent a short moment berating herself - she now knew first hand how unpleasant it was to be watched without one's knowledge, and Booker had been a perfect gentleman while she refreshed herself. She took in a deep breath and folded her arm beneath her head as she always did. The room's dank warmth and her tiredness nearly fooled her into believing she was nestled deep in her tower's plush, downy bed.

As the minutes passed, the only sounds Elizabeth could hear were the water faucet and the blades of the ceiling fans whirling through the air. Although she wanted nothing more than to fall into sleep's merciful oblivion, it was the first time in over a day that the world had stilled enough for her mind to sort through some of the chaos of her new experiences. To her chagrin, her thoughts were permanently settled on Booker.

Earlier in the streets of Shantytown, the moments she'd spent standing in his arms had been soothing and oddly euphoric, washing away the bleak despair and guilt she had been drowning in. Seeing his great physical strength and actually touching it...feeling it through his clothes had sent a static like warmth through her fingers and down her spine. The sensation had lingered like the ghost of a lightning bolt within her body, coupled with the faint scent of tobacco and warm, male skin. She would have happily fallen asleep right then... if he hadn't suddenly pushed her upright and walked away.

The near...callousness of the gesture had confused Elizabeth. He hadn't offered any sort of explanation either, with her pitiful attempt at an apology dying in her throat at his brusque declaration to move on. What was it that what had upset him? She drew in a deep breath and slowly expelled it. Her corset's hemlines were causing more irritation than the uneven surface of the bedding, but she shied away from the idea of loosening it. For reasons she couldn't explain, the vice-like hold it had around her ribcage made her feel as if some strange part of her that she hadn't been aware of before was contained.

Elizabeth finally drifted off to sleep a quarter hour or so later, just as Booker, freshly shaven and rinsed, returned to the chair he'd occupied before. The last thing she heard before she surrendered her consciousness was the clinking sound of glass and Booker's soft cursing and grimacing as he set to work drinking the putrid yellow Lutece Infusion.

* * *

**AN: See you next time, people. Hope those who ship BookBeth enjoyed it. I WRITE FOR YOU!**


	2. Guns for the Lady: Distribution Platform

**AN: Hello, hello again! Firstly I'd like to thank everybody who has stopped by and read/faved/author-alerted and especially reviewed! It's such a treat to hear from people who felt similarly about the whole ending to the game. :) I am striving hard to respect the source material and integrity of the original game...but seriously BookBeth OTP OTP OTP! Your comments and love keep me going! **

**A shout-out to Bite-of-Biscuit again for putting up with my perverse obsession and lending me her fabbo editing talents. **

**This chapter is about half the length of the first one...I apologize about that. HOWEVER! It does contain some heady stuff, and the next one is gonna be one hell of a doozy...probably about the length of the first chapter. So I figured I'd put this up to tide everyone over and give myself a short break.**

**As a final note, I'd like to remind everybody that I am only writing parts that would change in the game...it's an unfortunate fact of life that I don't have the time or energy to crawl through the entire game, start to finish, to give it a makeover. So, if it seems a bit sudden in comparison to the last chapter...I apologize, but it's how it's gotta be. I highly recommend going to youtube and searching for Bioshock Infinite Cutscenes...there's one crafty fellow that put the WHOLE thing together so it's like watching one giant 3.5 hour movie. 333 Seriously, I owe that guy a basket of muffins. **

**Enjoy everybody! Love you all! **

* * *

**GUNS FOR THE LADY - DISTRIBUTION PLATFORM**

When initiated by the inexperienced, death's process took a long time to complete. Booker had learned that years ago, watching the victims of botched gunshots, burnings, and beatings struggle against the grim reaper's inevitable collection. In his experience, the worst of them all were deaths brought on by a knife. Anyone unlucky enough to fall prey to a blade suffered terribly; unlike a bullet, which burned hot for a moment before a brief numbness set in with shock and unconsciousness, stab wounds wrought breath-stopping pain and bled hard. If the injury wasn't across the throat, it could take any amount of time for a knifed man's life to fade - sometimes blood loss could be tempered for an hour, a day, a week, a month...but nothing could stop the inevitable infection and fever that set in after.

The scenario unfolding behind the glass door of Fink's airship platform would have made Booker shudder if he hadn't seen it countless times in the past. Daisy Fitzroy's body jerked forward, her dark eyes wide as shock, realization, and fury mingled on her face. She stumbled into the glass as the force behind her struck again, reducing whatever howl of pain she was about to unleash to an estranged whimper. The pistol clutched in Daisy's hand dropped to the floor, ricocheting off the boy as he wrenched himself free of her grasp. Booker watched a pair of bloodstains swell and blossom across Daisy's shirt as she toppled to the floor. The child lunged at the wall beside the glass paneled doors and yanked on a lever, causing them to part from the copper seam down the middle. The interior lamps switched on automatically, illuminating the small, connecting space between Fink's office elevator and bridge to the airship dock. The boy was gone before the gears inside the wall stopped turning.

Booker started forward as Daisy mustered the strength to turn her body and reach for her attacker in an instinctual and ultimately futile attempt to retaliate. The woman's breathing was intensely labored and gasping, all of the blood pouring out of her stemming from the two wounds on her back. Her lungs had not been punctured; the natural structure of the ribcage was too closely knit to allow a random, unpracticed stab to penetrate most vital organs. But the damage was done...a sea of red was spreading on the floorboards surrounding Daisy's body. Even with medical treatment, she would bleed out well before the before the sun went down; the placement of the second stabbing was directly on her right kidney.

"Elizabeth..."

Booker raised his eyes from the dying Vox Populai leader to Elizabeth, pale and shaking as she staggered backwards. The horror and disbelief etched on her face was palpable as her widened eyes rolled in every direction, and the dripping pair of scissors in her hand trembled violently. Her face and clothes were covered in a misty spray of red, with blood coating her hands like a macabre pair of gloves.

"Guess it runs in the family..." she said, her voice a misery-filled whisper as she backed away from Daisy's twitching, outstretched fingertips.

The cacophony of gunfire, explosions, and Daisy's gasping breaths disappeared from Booker's ears as he holstered the Paddywacker and slowly held up his hands towards her.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, stepping over Daisy's body. Booker could see from her expression that she couldn't truly hear him. She'd acted on impulse when she climbed through the vent to save the Fink boy, and now that the threat was permanently removed, she was forced to take in what she had done. He gritted his teeth, cursing his total mishandling of the situation and wishing he could spare her from the kill's aftermath. The first one was always the worst because it filled the glass wall that separated the decent from the damned with an irreparable crack. With time, the schism would grow wider and wider, fueled by the pressures of guilt or additional kills until the barrier shattered completely, leaving whatever was left of a person's innocence to be consumed by sin. She didn't deserve to have that kind of tarnish on her soul.

"Hey..." he started, but she tensed and staggered away the moment his fingers brushed over arms. "Whoa, whoa...easy..."

Elizabeth's eyes were moving in and out of focus as they shifted back and forth between her hands and the body on the floor. Booker forced himself to keep his gaze trained on her face and not the scissors still wavering in her trembling hand - she was like a frightened mare, ready to bolt at the slightest additional stress. He reached for her again as gently as he could, trying to get his hands around her shoulders to steady her. She turned away from him then, finally allowing the scissors to drop to the floor with a rattling thud.

"Elizabeth..." His chest filled with sorrow and frustration for Elizabeth as she startled at the sound of the scissors clattering on the floor. The noise propelled her forward into a manic flight from the scene, her slender frame vanishing between the parted, heavy wooden doors on the other side of the platform entrance.

Booker seized the long, steel plated handles on the doors, feeling his muscles strain as he pried the massive weights open. By the time he was able to get through and look up, Elizabeth was on the opposite side of the brass and carpet lined bridge between the docking pier and the First Lady airship. The late afternoon sunlight poured through the wooden, cage-like blinds on the windows and mingled with the blue-green glow emanating from the oversized bell jar lamps lining the walls, casting Elizabeth as dark, graceful silhouette.

There was nothing to do but follow her at the fastest pace he could muster. Booker was grateful that she wasn't running from him this time, and when she reached the very end of the corridor she crossed the open door of the First Lady without hesitation. A burst of renewed anger and worry was released in his bloodstream as she disappeared from his sight again. He knew that she would struggle, if not outright refuse, to justify her actions. As far as he was concerned, Elizabeth had done what was needed to spare a child from a raving fanatic's wrath and delivered the inevitable end to Daisy Fitzroy's life. Sudden deaths were always destined for people like her, when the ideals driving their once-noble movement for change transformed them into a demon with the same characteristics of the ones they were claiming to exorcise. But the branded letters on the back of Booker's right hand began to burn and itch as he recalled the kind of things regret and shock made people do to punish themselves in the wake of their actions.

He would see her through this, whatever it took.

Booker forced himself to slow his pace as he skidded through the open door of the First Lady. Fortunately the main deck seemed to be abandoned, its velvet and brass grandeur draped in tattered sheets the Vox Populai used to create a makeshift hospital. The four cots that had sat in the center of the gondola yesterday had either been crammed against the bookshelf or overturned to create a barrier against an armed onslaught. Bits of white and red stuffing drifted through the air like dust mites around the ruined, bullet-riddled mattresses settled over the bodies that hid behind them.

Booker ignored the slaughter, looking in the direction he'd seen Elizabeth turn when she'd boarded the airship. A pair of high, polished brass gilded doors stood closed, blocking the gondola's main room from the private parlor in the back of the deck. He crossed over to them, picking his way across the fallen books and shattered debris of flower vases and sconce glass. Beyond the heavy doors he could hear Elizabeth, her breathing sporadic with half-stifled sobbing as she moved around the room.

Booker raised a fist and knocked hard on the smooth, gleaming surface. "Hey...Elizabeth, I think you should talk to me..."

He cursed under his breath when she didn't reply or open the door, and he raked a hand through his hair as his mind scrambled for something to tell her. But what helpful thing was there to say? Don't think about it? Even if she managed to distract herself during the day she would dream about it at night. Take as long a bath as she needed? A baptism from the fucking Pope wouldn't cleanse the overwhelming guilt she would feel for the rest of her life...or the memories of Daisy's blood covering her hands and the sounds of her dying breaths.

Booker closed his eyes and knocked again, harder this time. His fist hung in the air before it fell against the door with a deadened thud, and he leaned his forehead against it. "I know how this feels...Elizabeth, open the door."

There was a slam somewhere within, then quiet. He tried to turn the doorknob, unsurprised when it didn't budge an inch. "Damnit," he growled, straining his ears to pick up some hint of what she was doing.

When a few minutes passed and nothing changed, Booker turned away from the doors and returned to the airship's main entry hatch. Once it was pulled shut and the turn-wheel locked, he crossed the expanse of the gondola to the navigation deck. The sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floors seemed unnaturally loud as he walked up to the trio of small steps that led to the elevated platform where the red velvet pilot's chair and the control panel sat. He raised his eyes to observe the world beyond the spread of windows above the helm and found an endless blur of pale gray smoke rising up from the destruction in the factory buildings below the pier. In the distance were the faintest outlines of Columbia's structures beyond Finkton Manufacturing and the occasional, murky shape of a transporter platform.

Booker braced his hands at the base of the number-entry levers that powered the coordinate controls and leaned his weight on his arms, hanging his head. He didn't know when he'd lost control of the situation but it was far too late to get it back. His heart was drowning in a hot, inescapable cocktail of hatred for Columbia, Daisy Fitzroy, Comstock, his unnamed employer and himself. He'd spent most of his life inflicting injustices on thousands of innocent people…the overworked and impoverished factory workers of Portland, the natives of Wounded Knee…but none of it affected him as deeply as the days he'd spent with Elizabeth.

Booker had never felt much guilt over telling lies to make his job go easier, and he'd told her everything she'd wanted to hear from the time they washed up on the artificial beach of Battleship Bay to the moment she called him out on it all the first time they'd boarded the First Lady. Now, he was consumed with it, wishing he could go back and do it all again. Before she had trusted him simply because she could…but afterwards? She had more choices than she gave herself credit for. She was smart and resourceful enough to disappear forever if she wanted to, yet she _still_ relied on him to take her away from Columbia and keep her safe from Comstock, his brainwashed flunkies, and the Songbird. It was like some demented test put before him by God, just to see what he would ultimately do with her. Others would have been quick to call her choices foolish naiveté, but it was far more than that. The belief she had in him shone through her wide, cerulean blue eyes every moment she looked at him.

Booker raised his head as the image of her smiling face came to mind, accompanied by the joyful, almost musical sound of her laughter. It had been nearly two decades since he felt the desire to sacrifice his own interests to make someone else happy. All hope for himself and life had passed out of him when Annabelle and their daughter had died, and now it had returned in the shape of a beautiful, free-willed, intelligent young woman who could literally pull reality apart at the seams. Stranger still was the fact that he didn't mind they could never be anything beyond what they were now…reminding him of what it felt like to care for someone would be enough.

"Fuck it all," Booker muttered as he took hold of the levers and began to push and pull them to dial in the appropriate numbers – north forty-eight by two thirty-four east. It didn't matter what happened to him now. He would get this one thing right.

The soft click of footsteps behind him brought Booker's thoughts back to the present. Elizabeth had emerged from the parlor at last, but the sight of her stopped his breath. She'd stripped off her ruined clothes and put on a cobalt blue velvet day-gown that fell to her ankles with a single flounce on the side that revealed a mischievous peek of lace trimmed underskirts beneath it. Covering her arms was a cropped jacket of the same material with long, tight sleeves and pale cuffs that folded back over her wrists. The white, corseted bodice was low cut and square, the stays trimmed with black silk ribbons that outlined the elegant curves of her torso and pushed her breasts high.

Booker swallowed hard – clutched in her hand was the severed length of her hair, still tied in the whimsical blue ribbon. What remained of it fanned around her head in a choppy bob, the shining, dark brown locks a few inches shorter at the base of her skull where the scissors had cut.

"Elizabeth…" he started as the ribbon and hair fell away from her hand and onto the floor. Washed of all the blood and soot from the day's mayhem, there was nothing to hide the bleak anguish that clung to her like a second skin.

"This…is all they had," she said, raising her arms in a defeated shrug, as if she needed to excuse herself for pilfering a chiffonier.

"Listen..."

"How do you do it?" she asked suddenly, her arms falling limply to her sides as she stared at a fixed spot off to the side.

"Do what?"

"Forget. How do you…wash away the things you've done?"

The question nearly broke his heart as she wrapped her arms around herself, as she had in Shantytown when she'd seen the vandalized poster that had damned her as a reason for the Vox Populai's suffering. Booker clenched and unclenched his fists as he battled the urge to take her in his arms and pull her tightly against him. Although he'd expected her to ask that question, he still wasn't able to think of anything to say that could dispel her grief. All he could do was be truthful…now, until they parted ways.

"You don't. You just…learn to live with it."

He watched Elizabeth's eyebrows draw together in a sorrowful knit as she hung her head lower, her hair to falling over her eyes like a curtain. Christ, how he hated the world in that moment. Booker silently called down a variety of curses on himself as he stepped closer to her and raised his hands. He pushed the knowledge that he would heartily regret what he was about to do aside and laid his palms across her shoulders. With the caution of a priest handling a holy relic, he gently pulled her into an embrace, relieved that she was didn't resist and seemed receptive to the advance. He felt her shift her arms away from her body, her hands coming up and gripping the lapels on his vest as she'd done in the streets of Shantytown. She tucked her head in the crook of his neck and heaved a deep, trembling breath as she leaned heavily against him.

Booker's eyes lulled shut as he dropped one hand around the small of her back and cupped the nape of her neck with the other. Her body was supple and plush against his – a woman's body, more of one he initially gave her credit for now that most of it was on display in that dress. The softness of her breasts made his head go light and his heartbeat heavy, and for a moment he marveled at how well she fit in his arm; her long, delicate torso and curving waist were the perfect complement to the hard rigidness in his build. The sole awkwardness was one he dared not adjust…the narrow barrier his knees created was the only thing preventing her hips from sliding between his legs.

Moments passed. Holding Elizabeth affected him like a night spent with a gin bottle. He felt so completely engulfed in the warm, heady fog that the world outside their stillness seemed nonexistent, and he nearly missed her unhappy whisper.

"I didn't want to kill her..."

" 'Course not," he replied, not unkindly and added, "But you did the right thing...you saved that kid's life."

Booker met her gaze then, removing the hand on the back of her neck and framing it around the side of her face. Her high, aristocratic cheeks were warm and lightly flushed as he gently brushed his thumb over her eyelid, collecting the small tear that had beaded on the raven black lashes.

"Come on, don't cry now," he murmured. "Daisy Fitzroy ain't worth it."

Elizabeth sucked in a breath and nodded, blinking rapidly at the remaining moisture in her eyes. "Thank you," she said, the corners of her mouth turning up in the barest hint of a smile.

Booker felt a rush of heat collect in his face as her eyelashes fluttered down and her head came forward, bringing the downy textures of her hairline against his mouth. The scent of warm, female skin and lavender wafted up his nostrils and caused a violent tremble to move through his legs. The sensation of the baby-fine hair and creamy smoothness of her forehead should have sent him reeling backwards like a man scalded with hot iron, but he'd never been particularly good at resisting temptation. He parted his lips and brushed them downwards, traveling across one elegant brow and to the still-damp corner of her eye. The taste of the stray tear's salt was an exotic opiate to him, her soft intake of breath stoking the high of renewed physical touch. Elizabeth tilted her head upwards then, the innocent, rose-colored bow of her mouth an offering his lust-riddled mind was too weak to refuse. Raw desire saturated his entire being when his lips finally touched the petal-softness, and he tightened his hold around her waist. A quiet, feminine sound emitted from her throat as one of her hands drifted away from his chest and hovered somewhere beside their faces. The feather-light scrape of her fingertips against his jawline sent sparks through his pores and shooting down to his gut.

Booker couldn't suppress a groan when she gripped his shoulder, each erratic puff of breath a strike of heat on his face. Using the hand still on her face, he gently urged her to tilt her head, his heartbeat a thunderous rhythm inside his chest as she immediately followed, leaning more weight into his fingers. He used the heel of his palm to gently push the tight clutch where the line of her jaw connected to her head, making the seam of her lips shift as he finally brushed his tongue over the plush surface. She tensed and leaned even harder against him, finally forcing him to widen his stance and allow her body to fully mold against his. Booker's knees buckled violently when her hips pressed hard against his and turned his blood to fiery, undiluted Devil's Kiss. He caught her lower lip in a brief nibble and when they parted, he dipped his tongue inside her mouth. He could taste hints of the caramel apple she'd eaten earlier, mixed with her natural ambrosial taste.

"Booker!" she gasped against his mouth, clutching fistfuls of his vest's fabric as she tentatively stroked her tongue over his. For a few scalding seconds he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed even harder as she let out a high-pitched moan, her body arching even deeper into his arms.

Her sweet, ardent movements centered his thoughts on the tiny, barely-aware part of Booker's brain. He ripped his mouth away from hers and swore violently, practically shoving her out of his arms. He turned away from her and slammed a fist down hard on the polished countertop of the helm. Time passed at a lethal slowness, punctuated with the sounds of the impassioned friction of their breathing.

Holy Christ. What the hell had he been thinking? She had every right to clout him over the head with a wrench again, and shove his unconscious body out of the zepplin. Every day he seemed to find a new level to stoop to, but a going to a hair's breadth of sexual deviancy? Unacceptable. He'd just robbed her of an experience that should have been beautiful for her, in some French park and with a much younger man, with the blood, death, and destruction that surrounded them a fading memory. The hot, sweet storm he'd been swept up in had turned to a frigid sea of self-hatred, and it took ages to calm himself enough to speak.

"I'm sorry," he growled through clenched teeth. "God damnit, I shouldn't have done that."

"Booker," she said, taking a step towards him and raising her hands. "I…"

"Don't," he said, more roughly than he intended to as he moved out of her reach. He kept his eyes firmly planted on the navigation panel, holding up a hand in the universal gesture for stop. "What just happened...can't...won't _ever_ happen again."

"Why?"

The simple word was filled with innocence, stubbornness, frustration...it devastated Booker even more than her distress upon killing Daisy. Because he couldn't stop his heart from leaping for joy as it was filled with the foolish hope that Elizabeth would _want_ to be with him, that there was a possibility he would know happiness again. He fought the notion hard, forcing it into some dark place in his heart to never be examined again. She was young and had no experience whatsoever with carnal lusts. Any desire she felt for him was an illusion or a product of their adrenaline-fueled time together. Whereas his feelings for her were nothing more than his body's rebellion against his long, self-imposed abstinence...a lecherous, aging man's fantasy.

"Booker...these coordinates..."

Booker forced himself to look at Elizabeth as her attention settled on the navigation equipment. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes heavy lidded, and her lips reddened as her breasts swelled above the hemline of her corset with her breathing. He winced and looked away again, his mind barely registering the airy, rapid-paced flute melody coming from somewhere in the room bend them. She looked every bit as handled as a whore passing a group of sailors on shore-leave. What a piece of work he was...

"These coordinates aren't to New York..." she whispered, her tone quivering with disbelief. "They're for Par-"

The statement was abruptly cut off when the air outside was filled with the Songbird's haunting screech. Booker cursed as the airship was struck, his body thrown hard against the control panel.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no!"

Booker looked up in time to see the mechanical terror swoop ahead of them, it's hulking, grotesque body and leather-clad wings fit for a creature of Hell. Its dark, hideous form faded into the smog and buildings ahead as he forced himself back onto his feet. Elizabeth had already pulled herself up from the floor, her face pale with terror and dread.

"Damnit! Come on, you gotta help me find a way to make this thing go faster."

"There has to be some sort of throttle or a thruster of some kind!" she exclaimed, frantically running her hands over the helm's counter surface as she looked at the coordinates lever on the navigation dial.

Booker glanced out the window and saw the Songbird had circled around and was flying directly at them, the eyes a pair of hellish red glows as it unleashed a second, ear-piercing shriek.

"Do you know what that looks like!?"

"I don't know!"

"Help me find it!"

Too late. The Songbird landed on the front of the zeppelin, one huge, taloned hand piercing the royal purple envelope while the other ripped the bronze figurehead of Lady Comstock away. The glass windows shattered and Elizabeth was thrown backwards as the Songbird threw its weight downwards, pulling the entire airship into a barrel role with it. Booker felt his stomach vanish when his feet left the floor and everything that wasn't nailed to the floor went airborne. Books, vases, lamps, shards of glass, crates, and the red velvet chair bounced around his vision as he searched for Elizabeth. She was floating a few feet beside him, her arms flailing around in desperate search of something solid to grab onto.

"Elizabeth! Hang on to something!" he shouted as loudly as he could as his body hit the gondola ceiling. Something cold and oddly shaped connected with the back of his head, causing Booker's vision to blur as he was thrown back down to the floor. There was a defeating crash that shook the world violently, and all he could see was Elizabeth's unconscious form lying just out of his reach before darkness swallowed him whole.

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**AN: :D Woof that was hot. The next one will be even hotter *winkwink* **


	3. Family Reunion - Grand Central Station

**Author's Notes: **

**Hello again at last everyone! I am SO sorry for the incredibly long wait between this chapter and the last - life devoured me body and soul for a few weeks. Work and family drama and such... but the good news is that I kept writing all through it, and here is the next installment! I told you guys it was gonna be a doozy...11+ k words! I cannot say thank you enough for your patience, and for sending me thoughtful words of encouragement to continue. **

**I hope this offering pleases everyone, especially those who have waited so patiently for a sensual BookBeth scene! **

**As always, a shout out to Bite-of-Biscuit, who helped me find the words to express the hardest part of this chapter Enjoy!**

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**Family Reunion - Grand Central Station**

Of all the surprises Elizabeth had seen since the free falling escape from her tower, one of the more noteworthy ones was how noisy the world beyond her gilded cage was. The days since her escape blurred together in an endless smear of deafening noises – the infuriated cries of the Songbird, the din of industrial labor, machinery, gunfire, yelling…it was an overwhelming onslaught on all of her senses. Growing up, one of her largest frustrations was not having the appropriate sounds to accompany her observations of Columbia through her telescope. Every high, brass-sealed window in her tower had been fitted with thick glass that muted the world to a soft chorus of indistinguishable noises beneath the wind. She could never hear the conversations people had with each other as they walked through the streets, or fully appreciate the music and bluster of the holiday festivals. Any strange and chaotic tears she opened, like the one of a dark Parisian street with a bizarre, mechanical cart barreling out of control towards her had been dismissed as otherworldly...a product of her imagination. Now she was forced to acknowledge that there may have been a kernel of truth in every glimpse of ear-shattering madness within the dimensions she tore into.

With the afternoon fast melting into a golden-red evening and still no signs of the Vox Populi's brutal coup d'état ending, Elizabeth's nerves had become a tangled web of frayed clusters throughout her body. She'd read about the kind of widespread destruction and upheaval she was witnessing in Columbia, but none of the history tomes had truly captured what it was like. Without a defined leader, the Vox were running wild off the influence of Daisy Fitzroy's final hours, burning buildings, looting, and hunting down any Founders that hadn't made it onto a transporter or airship.

The dangers had prolonged the journey through Emporia and the Grand Central Station isles, and more than once had she and Booker been recognized. Although Booker was a supposed hero to the Vox in this universe, word that they…_she_ was responsible for Daisy Fitzroy's death had circulated. Many of the demonstrators recognized them as they made their way to Comstock House, but Booker countered any attempts at vengeance. Bodies fell like dominoes against his unmatched use of Vigors as anyone foolish enough to provoke him were surrounded by murders of flesh eating crows or levitated ten to fifteen feet in the air before meeting death by electrocution or fire. In turn, she collected every bottle of Invigorating Salts she could find to help him maintain his strength, any remorse or hesitation she felt for stealing gone like ash in a breeze.

Elizabeth's lungs were burning as she followed Booker beyond the Grand Central ticket booth. The small first-aid kit, two bottles of Invigorating Salts and box of Paddywacker ammunition were like leaden weights in her arms, and the muscles in her legs were beginning to cramp. But she had to keep moving…both of them had noticed the gangs of Vox had considerably thinned since the ticket booth. With any luck, the areas beyond would lead to across the last stretch of Emporia and straight to Comstock House…and a place to rest.

Elizabeth's eyes were drawn to the bookstore as she and Booker rushed by. Apparently it hadn't been much interest to the Vox after ransacking the cashbox and littering one or two of the shelf contents across the lobby's alabaster floors. As someone who had spent the majority of her life cultivating great respect and adoration for books, she cringed upon seeing the destroyed bindings and pages strewn about like last month's newspapers.

Booker must have sensed her fatigue because he slowed his pace, the Paddywacker raised and scanning over the cavernous room as he partially turned to her and out a hand. She threw the smaller Invigorating Salt bottle away, uncaring of the sloshing explosion of glass breaking when it hit the floor as her hand was freed. She gave it to him with a grateful clap, and his fingers closed around her palm as he pulled her towards a straight, grand staircase that led to a pair of turnstile blockades. Her eyes focused on their grip as they raced up the red-carpeted steps. His skin was still hot from a recent unleashing of Devil's Kiss, the texture dry and fragile as the magnetics in his body worked to repair the damage. She tightened her fingers and endeavored to keep pace with him, the layers of her skirt barely keeping out from underfoot as they ascended the steps.

Elizabeth was struggling for air as she and Booker shoved their way through one of the blade-door turnstiles, which emptied into a short, dead end corridor. Breathing hard, he wordlessly took the items from her arms as she collapsed into one of the bare seats that stood abandoned by one of the clerk desks lining the back wall. He dropped their cache on the surface beside her and began to prowl the corridor, opening all the drawers on the desks and pocketing coins, lockpicks, a pack of cigarettes, and whatever else he came across that he liked. The weakening sunlight pouring in through the windows cast him in a warm, golden glow that highlighted his hair and the rugged planes of his face. He was tense and alert, still vibrating with yellow magnetic energy and coming down from the rush of the violence and gunfire they'd escaped. His breathing was far more regular and steady than hers was, and she was grateful to have a few minutes to recuperate.

Her corset was becoming more insufferable each passing hour, and she formed her hands around it in a desperate attempt to move it so that it would somehow loosen its lung-crushing pressure. Elizabeth grimaced as the boning dug deeper into her flesh, and she peered around her surroundings in the vain hope that there would be another abandoned trunk with a chemise for her to pilfer. She'd foolishly discarded hers when she'd changed into what she assumed was an old gown of her mother's, lacing the white, black-trimmed corset onto her bare skin and above the high waistline of the skirts. She had once read in a lady's fashion periodical that it was the height of tastelessness for a woman's underclothes to show in any way, and the blue, richly made dress was at least fifteen years old. There hadn't been any thought beyond that as she continued her unsuccessful battle against her grief and guilt for murdering Daisy Fitzroy.

Now, there had been plenty of time to further contemplate the gown and all its low-cut, poking and molding glories. It may have been at the height of fashion for its era, but the heavy corset was borderline immodest for Elizabeth's current circumstances and definitely not intended to be worn in a setting outside of an evening soirée. If she'd had maintained her composure a little more efficiently in the airship, she probably would have either taken scissors to her chemise or worn it anyway - the damn thing would be a little more comfortable if she had.

If she weren't fleeing for her life and a way out of Columbia, Elizabeth would have relished the dress. She'd always wanted to wear something more daring than the modest garments her jailers had provided. The occasional glimpse in a mirror or her reflection in a window was still jarring; her breasts, which she'd never thought of as anything noteworthy, were molded into high, full roundness while her torso and hips were laced in to a shape she had only seen on fashion prints. Although she'd felt a pang of shyness over her appearance emerging from the parlor in the First Lady airship, it was quickly forgotten and replaced by an entirely new set of feelings when Booker kissed her.

Elizabeth blushed at the memory, her stabilizing heartbeat rising a pitch or so again. She stole a glance at Booker as he continued to ransack the hallway, moving past her and towards the other side of the makeshift office. Further investigation of the space made her wonder what exactly it had been used for...the towering walls were papered and filigreed with traditional Columbian red and gold, a perfect compliment to the smooth marble floor tiles. A sawed off shotgun lay abandoned at the foot of a cherry wood tripod and camera set standing in the corner. At the foot of the four high cathedral windows were writing desks flanked with crimson, velvet curtains. She craned her head away and looked in Booker's direction, noticing a large, framed green sign on the wall that had been fitted with brass lettering that spelled "Elevator." She let her head fall back and heaved a sigh, thankful that the way out wasn't back where they'd just come from.

"You all right?" his gruff inquiry caused a small shiver to roll up her spine and turn whatever sweat was on her to ice. She nodded and looked up as he approached her, an abandoned tin lunchbox and canteen in hand. He took an experimental sip from the canteen and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. Deeming it acceptable, he handed it to her and told her to drink. She took it gladly, a glassy film of tears forming in her eyes as the tepid water soaked the inside of her parched mouth and throat. She forced herself to stop after a few gulps, her eyes focused on Booker as he shrugged out of his vest, belts and ammunition holsters and dropped them beside their meager collection of supplies. His mouth was set in a grim, hard line as he loosened his red silk necktie and yanked his shirt-tails out of his pinstriped pants.

"Booker?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing as worry flooded her mind. He took in a ginger breath and pulled the black linen up his body, exposing the ruined, white cotton undershirt he wore beneath it. Elizabeth's eyes widened as a strangled cry left her throat at the sight of the huge, dark red stains covering the fabric and the frayed holes at their sources.

"I'm all right," Booker grunted, raising his bandaged hand to calm her as he dipped his fingers into the gash on his side, about six inches down from the place his arm connected to his torso. She bit her lip, watching him grimace as he appraised the injury and sighed in relief when there wasn't nearly as much blood as she'd been expecting on his hand when he withdrew it.

"What happened? I didn't see you get hit."

"Stray bullet...just grazed me. Looks worse than it is."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow as he shifted their belongings off to one side of the desk and reached for the medical satchel. He dumped the contents on the surface, plucking the bottle of antiseptic and square paper envelopes of aspirin powder from the roll of gauge, adrenaline syringe, and the other medical tidbits typically packed in the satchels.

"Your magnetic repulsion field is getting stronger," she commented as she screwed the iron cap back onto the water canteen. "But what about any side effects?"

Booker shrugged. "Haven't felt any just yet...probably something horrible that'll hit later, once all this is over."

Elizabeth gave him a wry look and picked up the roll of gauze, holding out her hand for the antiseptic. He shook his head at her implication, but relented after a few moments of her unwavering stare. She couldn't help the triumphant grin that pulled at the corner of her mouth as she uncorked the cap of the small brown bottle. The withering, acrid smell of raw alcohol hit her nostrils within seconds, and she didn't envy Booker for needing it. He brought one of the other desk chairs close to hers and sat, rolling the stained fabric of his undershirt just high enough to expose the wound.

Elizabeth couldn't help a sharp intake of breath as his bare side and abdomen were exposed. There was a multitude of old scars etched into his skin - a long gash going from his waist and upwards on a diagonal slant, at least four knicks, and a star-shaped patch she suspected was what remained of a shotgun wound. Those were the only the only ones she could see from her position, but she had no doubt there were many more marring his body. When she looked back at his eyes, Elizabeth found his expression was the blank, practiced look he'd wear when he was dealing with an uncomfortable situation. She made no comment and started to tug and fold the layers of filmy white gauze, constructing a makeshift pad out of it before pouring a measure of the antiseptic over it.

"Brace yourself," she murmured, waiting until he finished inhaling before pressing the alcohol-soaked fabric against the wound. Booker tensed and let out a harsh breath riddled with hisses and profanity as the fluid turned yellow and bubbled over the injury. Her eyebrows drew together in sympathy as she began to dab at the inflamed flesh, the skin surrounding it bloodless and ragged. She startled when a burst of bright gold energy crackled around her hand, seeming to stem from the glistening, dark red cut.

"Christ, that stings," he growled darkly.

Elizabeth nodded in sympathy, watching as the injury continued to burst with energy, the layers of skin shifting and knitting back together as the magnetic field worked to restore his body. Incredible...she'd read articles and reports on the effects of Rosalind Lutece's Infusion potion. When consumed, the magnetic atoms spread through the body with a virulent effect, bonding to bone and tissue cells and freezing them in a bizarre kind of stasis, similar to the quantum levitation phenomena she'd discovered. While the Infusion's field effect didn't prevent physical contact from anything, impact above a certain level of force were countered with all the strength the field could produce, followed by reconstruction to its original state. It would be the most rampantly consumed tonic in the world - if most who took it didn't die horribly, writhing in pain and unable to withstand the genetic changes the magnetic field wrought. Shortly after they had met, Booker had mentioned to Elizabeth that Rosalind and her twin brother had once cheerfully bickered about the survival rate of previous Infusion drinkers...after he'd downed the contents of a bottle. The story convinced her that the Lutece twins had taken advantage of his ignorance and chose not to disclose just how dismal his chances of living through the process had been. But from what little she'd seen for herself, that wasn't out of character for the eccentric, red-haired twins.

Booker had also told her that the Infusion's initial side effects, though brief, hadn't been pleasant to experience. But apparently, each time he drank the potion the intense rushes of tingles and pressures subsided because he kept drinking them at every chance he had. Elizabeth had counted four since the start of their strange journey, leaving room for the possibility of a fifth on account there had been an entire day between his first dose and the fall through her library ceiling. At this point, the protective field was so strong that most bullets simply bounced away from him, or were caught in a fray of yellow threads of energy before they dropped to the ground with a shrill noise. Even a Handyman's bone-crushing blow was slowed by it.

Those details were what drew Elizabeth's concern about the Infusions. Due to the extensive deaths and the potion's short-term term existence, no one, not even Rosalind, had been able to determine a few critical details about the long-term effects. There was no way of knowing how much a person could safely increase the magnetic intensity, how long the effects lingered, or if the atomic suspension could extend a drinker's life beyond natural age. Booker hadn't exactly been an ideal savior from storybooks; she now knew enough about him to realize that he had spent a great deal of time in a perilously bleak and conflicted place - he welcomed death, but survival's instinct was deeply rooted to his core, rendering him unwilling to commit suicide. In Elizabeth's opinion, all evidence indicated that Booker DeWitt was destined to live a long life.

Whether he wanted to or not.

Elizabeth tried half-heartedly to martial her wandering thoughts as continued her gentle administration while the wound continued to heal itself. But her eyes eventually strayed back to the rest of his bared skin. The dark hair she'd glimpsed on his chest during that first night in Shantytown extended down his abdomen and collected in a straight line beneath his naval before it vanished into his pants. It was decidedly …tantalizing, and she wondered what it would be like to trail her fingers down masculine patterns from his shoulders to the unseen expanses of him below.

The sight of his partially unclad form by the bar basement sink had irrevocably stirred a curiosity within Elizabeth that she couldn't quite identify. Although the dim, yellow lights hadn't revealed any fine details, she'd seen enough to comprehend that Booker was a physically enthralling man. His silhouette was a towering collection of defined muscle that stretched over his arms and chest and tapered to straight, narrow hips. Now, she was presented with an intimate look at his abdomen, which had none of the softness that, from her observations, seemed to be commonplace to his Columbian counterparts. The sight, combined with everything else she'd experienced with him so far, was cultivating into an overwhelming, inexplicable, and utterly outrageous desire to touch him.

Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and drew back, removing the bloodied gauze from his side. She barely heard his thanks as he got to his feet and began to right his clothing. She averted her eyes and frowned; the light, hot thrill swirling around her heart had turned into a heavy simmer of frustrated turmoil, and in a desperate bid to distract herself she began to reorganize the medical supplies back into their satchel. Unfortunately the attempt was a dismal failure – she needed a few moments to think and sort through her muddled emotions, but privacy was a luxury she wouldn't enjoy anytime soon. So she stood and meandered over to one of the cathedral windows, one hand coming to rest over her pounding heart, and the other fisting in the heavy, red velvet curtain. As she looked over the ravaged Columbian scenery, Elizabeth was relieved that Booker didn't seem to notice her trouble, or if he did, he mercifully didn't inquire about it. She took in a deep breath, careful to let it out in a slow, near-inaudible stream as she began to dissect what was happening to her.

Elizabeth had been thirteen years old when her menstrual cycles had begun. She would never forget the bone-deep terror she'd experienced between the foreign cramping, aches, and sporadic rushes of bleeding. With no idea of what was happening to her, she'd spent the days in fear of dying from blood loss or something worse. The following Monday, several pamphlets and a book on human anatomy had appeared with the usual basket of groceries left on her dining room. The pamphlets had explained the basics of menstruation and how a lady was expected to cope with the symptoms. But they were all vague and non-descriptive of _why _it happened and what purpose did it serve to the body. The anatomy book had been slightly more helpful, stating that it was related to human reproduction and a perfectly normal occurrence in all women. Regrettably, the pages that reviewed the details of the act itself had been torn out completely, reinforcing her musing that it was a forbidden subject, since the etiquette books declared it unladylike to mention _anything_ related to the body. How she despised elusive questions she couldn't answer…but there hadn't been anyone for her to ask about something so basic and essential to life.

In the years since then, Elizabeth had managed to grasp a vague idea of what sexual relations were, piecing together phrases and hints from various other books. She'd also noticed that her cycles had eventually become evenly timed, and could sense its approach from the small knots that formed in her stomach and strange, unpredictable moods. In the week leading up to its start, she often felt empty, despite having eaten and drank her fill. Sleep was infuriatingly difficult to come by, and when it did, her dreams changed from vivid images of leaving the tower and flying, to a vague impression of something warm and breathless. Every part of her would become irritatingly sensitive, and the only thing that had ever soothed the bizarre dissatisfactions was a long, hot bath and mentally taxing text like_ Principals of Quantum Mechanics _or Albert Einstein's Annus Mirabilis papers. But no amount of reading could ever take away the idea that her body wanted something she had no means of providing or understanding.

Eventually she had reconciled it to a form of restlessness, a psychological agitation over her captivity. Once again, Elizabeth was forced to admit that her hypothesis on the matter no longer applied – it had been rendered completely invalid the moment she had leaned against Booker for comfort in the Shantytown alley. Her sorrow over the vandalized poster had dissolved within minutes, replaced by an unexpected rush of safety and ease that left her lightheaded and drowsy. It was the first time a man…anyone had ever held her, and she'd desperately wanted more of it. More pressure, more heat, more of the appealing, male scent coming off his skin and clothes. It had all added up to some similar thing that her body longed for, but the moment had ended all too abruptly when Booker had practically shoved her away.

Elizabeth tightened her grip on the soft, plush curtain velvet; it was wrong to be caught up in such trivial things when lasting decisions about her future, ones with no guarantee of her having a say in them, were going to be decided soon. It was reprehensible to have any kind of pleasure or joy so soon after she'd stabbed a woman in the back and watched her bleed to death at her feet. But she couldn't stop the grin pulling the corners of her mouth, or control her fluttering heartbeat as she reflected on that torrid moment on the airship. At last, she finally had an idea of why the subject of romance was such an enthralling, prolific subject in literature. In her opinion, none of the authors she'd ever read had really described the physical raptures of kissing with due justice…all of that wonderful, heady sensations of touching, pressing, tasting, and breathing could light skin on fire if it went on long enough. It had been the most thrilling experience of her life…and she wanted to do it again.

To her everlasting frustration, Booker refused to discuss what had happened, much less give her any indication he was interested in kissing her for a second time. In the rare moments during their struggle across Emporia that she had the opportunity (and relative privacy) to bring up the subject, he would cut her off with a terse reply, give her a dark look that could frighten small children, or remain mulishly silent.

"That won't happen again."

The words had initially hurt, resurrecting an old, but deep insecurity that there was something wrong with her...that she lacked some critical attribute that made her unfit to experience life as the rest of the world seemed to. It made her wonder why Booker had bothered to kiss her if the idea was so unappealing in the first place...or if it was her obvious lack of experience he hadn't liked.

A shadow moved across the glass then, and Elizabeth refocused her gaze on the windowpane. Booker was standing a few feet behind her, his reflection mirror-like and crystal clear on top of the sunset. A pleasant shiver went up her back as she realized he was looking at her face, his eyes unblinkingly fixed on hers. She held his gaze, willing herself to keep her breathing steady even as her pulse began to drum. Despite his declaration and seeming indifference, Elizabeth had noticed his actions hadn't quite matched the words. He'd become increasingly protective of her as they'd traveled across Emporia, doing his best to avoid the rioting Vox Populi and fighting through the throngs when there was no help for it. The demonstrators were burning every building they could, after ripping out any valuables or capturing the unfortunate Founders that hadn't fled the city. When it was necessary, Booker had unapologetically forced her head away from the bloody, hanging remains of lynch victims or used his own body to protect her from any groups he didn't want to provoke.

She recalled an instance that had occurred earlier that morning, shortly after passing into Emporia. A gang of armed Vox had come barreling around the street corner, riding a stolen ice wagon attached to a pair of Automated Stallions overloaded with Shock Jockey. Tears had flooded her eyes as she watched them bellow profanities and gun down an enraged Founder that had been foolish enough to open his door to shout his opinion of their rebellion. Booker was quick to clap a hand over her mouth and drag her into the narrow space between the nearest pair of buildings. Before she could grasp what was happening he had her pushed hard against the brick wall, shielding her from view with his body and bowing his head low, until she could feel his breath against her ear and hair.

"Shh," he whispered, settling himself more heavily over her. The oncoming danger departed her mind as easily as what she'd eaten for breakfast last Tuesday, along with what would happen to them if they were found. Instead, all she could think of was how good his weight had felt over her...how broad, solid and strong his chest was and the soothing rhythm of his steady, unwavering heartbeat. Her toes had curled inside her boots, and her arms came to wrap around his sides. She had beamed against the leather of his vest when he continued to hold her long after the Vox had driven past them, their cries and gunshots fading in the distance. He seemed to have succumbed to a similar trance as she had, his body going still except for his clasp on shoulder and hip...his fingers flexed in a tightening grip twice before he finally released her.

"Why did you do that?" she'd asked, the places where his hands had gripped infused with a warm, lingering impression.

There was a long pause before he replied. "There ain't no shame in taking cover from maniacs, Elizabeth."

She nodded, choosing not to comment on his willful misinterpretation. The gesture itself had been enough to reassure her that perhaps Booker was at least attracted to her. The Parisian coordinates she'd glimpsed on the First Lady was proof that whatever sway she had on him was strong enough to change his mind about delivering her to New York. Whatever doubts she had about her trust in him had vanished, leaving only a burning desire to begin living her life as _she_ wanted – and she wanted Booker DeWitt.

The world beyond her window was a fading Columbia, the natural decline of an organized, advanced civilization occurring within the span of a week...and it had all started the moment she had left the archangel tower on Monument Island. Elizabeth signed and dropped her eyes to the floor as renewed guilt and self-consciousness returned with a crippling force. All the pain and devastation to the beautiful city she'd watched all her life tortured her mind...and she couldn't stop herself from once again wondering if she was the ultimate cause of it all.

She tensed upon feeling his palm curve over her right shoulder in a reassuring grip. "Elizabeth.. you alright?"

She jerked her head in a nod as she turned to face him. "Yes, I just...when I thought of what my great escape would be like...I never imagined this was what it would be. And I don't know what the rest of the world could be like, if this is what becomes of a place like Columbia."

Booker gave her a wry smirk and shook his head. "You'll get to find out for yourself soon enough. You okay to go on?"

Elizabeth nodded and returned to the desk they'd commandeered. She saw that Booker had already drunk the Invigorating Salts, and she assumed he stored the Paddywacker ammunition into one of the pouches on his leather side holsters. With the more useful items in the medical kit spent, there wasn't much of a reason to keep carrying it. So she took the opportunity to finish off the contents of the water canteen before following Booker to the other side of the corridor, where a pair of dark wood, brass-framed elevator doors stood.

Her eyes focused on the glowing console where the summoning switch was. Below the up and down arrow keys was a numeric pad – a grim sight for anyone who didn't know what it was.

"It's a simple dual-dial lock," she said, leaning closer for a better look as Booker stepped aside. "My book said that most fools keep the combination no more than twenty feet away."

"Let's hope we find one of those fools," he replied, turning back to the row of desks. As he started to go through the stacks of books, papers, and drawers of the desk nearest to them, Elizabeth turned to look at the row of handsome card catalog dressers lining the opposite wall. Peeking in to a few revealed they held the records of Columbian citizens – families, their addresses, births, deaths, all the standard information of the city's general population. The combination wasn't likely to be in one of the small, mother-of-pearl lined drawers.

"Why were you so keen on lock picking and code breaking?"

She smiled as she joined him by the second desk he was searching, this one covered with a heavy steel ruler and architectural diagrams of the major buildings of Columbia.

"If you put a person in a cage," she replied, helping him push aside the ruler and first few layers of white parchment. "They develop an interest in such things."

The oversized sheets of paper curled and rolled, revealing a journal and a pile of typed financial reports. On the top page were four numbers, dashed off in a messy, off-hand way that bespoke of someone scribbling a password after forgetting it too many times.

0451.

Booker laid his hand over the paper, his finger tapping the digits as he memorized the sequence. "I suppose so…"

"I won't be locked up again," Elizabeth reached over, covering his hand. It was so much larger than her own, his fingers long enough to curl over the tops of hers if they were put together. She looked at the torn, bloody material from her old skirt she'd wrapped the knife-wound with. The injury was finally healed, but he had yet to discard the ruined material. She sighed and brought it up, closing her other hand around his wrist and bringing it up so the backs of his knuckles brushed over the small hollow between her collarbones. Her heartbeat began to quicken as he felt him gently try to pull his hand away, and she tightened her grip.

"Promise me…"

"Elizabeth," he murmured, his expression a confused frown. Elizabeth clenched her teeth as her body was flooded with a clash of emotions and desires so powerful they robbed her of speech. She would _never_ be trapped anywhere ever again, no matter what it took – death was preferable to hearing a key turn in the lock of an iron door she couldn't open. The frustration of the idea caused bitter tears to build in her eyes, and she drew a shaking breath. She shifted Booker's hand so that it rested at the base of her neck, his fingers curving up around her throat and resting against her erratic pulse.

"Promise me that if it comes to it…that you will _not_ let anyone take me back…" She forced herself to meet his gaze, hoping that he could somehow understand what she was trying to ask. Apparently he did, because his expression darkened, his mossy green eyes narrowing and his mouth forming into a thin, hard line. She almost protested when his hand shifted, but instead of pulling it away as she'd expected, he raised it up further, shaping his fingers around her face. She gladly let her head lean into it, the calloused heat of his skin like a soothing balm on an infected wound.

"It won't come to that…I won't let it. Do you hear me?"

Elizabeth shuddered as relief washed over her body, causing her knees to buckle. She nodded and she blinked at the hot, acidic fog covering her eyes, willing them to recede. Even if it was an oath he could not keep…she knew he cared enough to do everything in his power to try. Her eyes lulled shut then, and she nuzzled her cheek against the roughened texture of the cobalt blue linen of her makeshift bandage. In the seconds that followed, she would have traded every book in her library to feel his arms come around her once again in that weighty, masculine grip she'd felt on the airship and in the alley.

A sudden, impulsive rush came over her then, her eyes opening wide as the idea took a vivid, mischievous form in her head. She hadn't exactly been expecting Booker to kiss her when she'd emerged from her mother's sitting parlor on the First Lady airship. It was a perfect opportunity to see if turnabout truly was fair play, and she once again met his gaze.

"Booker…"

Elizabeth took a small, careful step closer to him, slowly releasing his wrist and forearm. With her hands free, she went to put them on his shoulders and leaned closer, but paused as her ears caught the sound of gears rumbling in the wall on the other side of the room. They looked back as a shrill, hauntingly familiar melody filled the air, and one of the gold-fringe lined curtains began to rise. Elizabeth sucked in a breath as she recognized the golden sparkle of a Comstock statue, and she grabbed handfuls of his sleeves. She gave a hard yank and they staggered forward, dropping onto their knees beside the desk. Her heart turned to lead and climbed into her throat as the Songbird's cry echoed in the distance outside, and she looked at Booker.

"Shh," she whispered, holding an index finger up to her lips as a dark shadow slid over the windows. The building shook violently when the Songbird landed on the roof above, bits of plaster popping off the wall seams while cracks to split the cream white ceiling paint. She dared a peek over the edge of the desk in time to see her mechanical guardian sliding down to the ledge just outside, his silhouette hellish and so...artificial against the backdrop of a ruined Columbia. She closed her eyes as sunlight left the window right above their heads, replaced with the eerie red glow of the Songbird's enraged, lamp-like eye.

Terror and dread rendered her immobile when the Songbird let out another thunderous screech, the sound frustrated and angry as the glass in all four casements rattled and cracked like paper-thin crystal. Elizabeth covered her ears against the ear-splitting noise, and fought the impulse to get up and run when another earthquake-like rumble shook the building. She felt Booker grab hold of her as the glass gave way and rained over the corridor in a glittering burst. One of his hands covered the top of her head, forcing her to lean it into the crook of his neck as the other crossed over her back. She pressed herself hard against his body and hunched down as far as she could, wishing that she could somehow shrink into a miniature porcelain figure and hide in one of his pockets.

Every second felt stretched into an hour in those moments. When the dark void of her inner eyelids finally lightened, Elizabeth cracked them open to find that sunlight was pouring into the corridor again. Convinced that she wasn't there, the Songbird lost interest in the hallway at last, and the building lurched once more as it leapt back into the sky. Hearing it's calling grow mercifully faint, Elizabeth let out the breath she hadn't realized was holding and allowed herself fully collapse against Booker. To her profound relief, he didn't push her away. Instead, he propped his back more sturdily against the desk's lower drawers and shifted so that his legs straightened out in front of his body. His left arm dropped down to curve around her waist, allowing her to settle more comfortably alongside him. She closed her eyes and smiled as she rested her head on his chest, closing her fingers around one of the lapels on his vest.

They remained silent for a quarter hour or so, catching their breath and waiting for the last of the anxiety and adrenaline to recede. Elizabeth felt a surge of elevation as the fact they'd managed to elude the Songbird again sunk into her mind. They were nearing Comstock house…so close to leaving this wretched place forever. The sensations of excitement and victory made her lightheaded and giddy, and she stifled a giggle. Feeling outrageously coy, she followed the impulse to let go of his vest and slide her hand down his chest a few inches until it was beneath his fingers. To her delight, they absently wove around hers in a comfortable, possessive knit that made her heart dance.

"I'm too old for you," he said after a moment.

"What?" she asked, raising her head to look at him. He didn't meet her gaze…his eyes were focused on his index finger, which was idly stroking the soft mound of flesh that connected her thumb to her palm. She watched as his expression turned forlorn and weary, his head falling back against the desk in an air of defeat.

"Elizabeth…I know…listen, I can understand that you would want to…experience things. And…I suppose the past week has had an effect on both of us. But…Christ, I'm not the right man. I'm too damn old, too jaded. You deserve better, and –"

"Booker," she said, pulling her hand away. "I'm not a child."

"Believe me, I know," he muttered.

"So why are you treating me like one?"

"You think what I did to you on the First Lady is how a man treats a child?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "I liked what you did to me on the First Lady."

She could tell her comment pleased him, and she had to school her expression against a wild shriek of triumph when she saw go tense and his breath hitch. His mouth partially opened and hung that way for a moment before he found the words to reply.

"The point is that I shouldn't have done it. I stole something special from you…you're free now, you can meet someone your age, someone who isn't –"

"Stop it," she said more venom than she intended, but his words were making her temper flair wildly. She was sick and tired of having other people decide what was good for her, what she should have, what she deserved, what she should want. Hearing Booker spouting the same type of garbage that had been written in all the book jackets and pamphlets her jailers had given her was unbearable.

Elizabeth knew her face was as red as the sunset pouring through the broken windows as she drew herself up to her knees and gently took his face in her hands. The rugged feel of his five o' clock shadow in her palms and the pained glint in his eyes caused a brief pang of hesitation to move through her – she knew that what she was about to do would further complicate their already precarious relationship. There was every chance that it may not turn out in her favor and make the rest of their journey…uncomfortable, to say the least. But the knowledge that she no longer had to sit in a cage watching the world turn, without any say, gave her the courage to press on with the conversation.

"I haven't had the liberty to make choices in my life, Booker. You're the first one I'm making. And I think you want the same."

His jaw tightened as he swallowed. "I won't take advantage of you…damnit, you don't understand what you're asking for."

Elizabeth scowled and seized one of his hands with both of hers. Overcome with a new boldness, she placed it over her breast, forcing his fingers to mold around the lush curve swelling high above the corset hemline. His eyes widened as a line of color appeared on his cheeks, crossing the crooked bridge of his nose. Her next breath was a quick, ragged burst as a pleasurable tingle blossomed from the heat of his palm, threading down her ribcage and settling low in her stomach.

"Kiss me," she murmured, releasing his wrist and grabbing the lapels on his vest. She leaned closer to him, until she could feel his breath on her lips. His hand remained where she'd placed it on her breast, his fingers curling into a tight grip around the corset's black-ribbon edge. "Kiss me, Booker."

Elizabeth sighed when he gave in at last, his mouth covering hers with a low, savage growl that rumbled from the deepest parts of his chest. She closed her eyes and splayed her fingers wide across the broad, iron-like surface of his chest. The rough texture of his stubble against her cheeks sent white-hot pinpricks of pleasure shooting down her body. His lips were warm and soft against hers, and her eyes flew open in shock and outrage when he drew his head back a few inches.

"Open," he said, removing his hand from her chest and bringing it up to cradle the side of her face. She flushed as his thumb brushed over her mouth once, twice before he pulled her close again. Her lips parted, and she tensed as his tongue swept past them while he urged her head to tilt. She could feel his fingers fisting in her hair, and she slid her hands up over his shoulders to wind her arms around his neck. Her breasts pressed hard against his chest, the textures of his shirt and necktie igniting a delicious, teasing friction on her skin. She extended her tongue as Booker's did; she could taste the warm hints of the Invigorating Salts he'd consumed, and it sent a spark of energy down her throat. Her back arched as she felt both of his hands slide around her ribcage, his thumbs framing the underside of her breasts while he bit her lower lip with a sensual pinch. Elizabeth used the respite to suck in a breath, but it only lasted a second before he crushed his mouth back against hers. Her lungs began to burn from lack of oxygen but she hardly noticed, wanting to taste more of him. His lips shaped and slanted over hers with a primeval hunger, sucking and teasing, his taste smokey and masculine. She ached everywhere they touched, and could feel his hard muscles bunching and shifting beneath her hands. The heat crawling through her trembling body made her flush beneath her layers of clothes, and and she wanted to tear open his shirt to feel his naked skin.

Booker broke the kiss and began to search the slender line of her neck. Desperate for breath, Elizabeth tilted her head back and moaned softly at the heavy grain of his day-old beard scraping against her skin. Excitement was beginning to flair high and wild within her, and she writhed to get even closer to him.

"Come here," Booker growled against her throat before he shifted over to the bend of her shoulder and playfully nipped the tender flesh there. Elizabeth's head rolled to the side as her eyelids wavered heavily. She could feel his hands going down her sides, following the corset's boning before he molded his fingers around her rear and thigh. A rush of scandalized delight shot through her like an arrow, and she took hold on his shoulders.

"Booker..." she whispered as he tugged her onto his lap, firmly guiding her legs onto either side of his hips. Her skirts rode up over her legs, the cobalt blue velvet pooling like a heavy sea over his abdomen and around his waist. Elizabeth looked down at his hands, holding the bottom of her hips and feeling as if she were in a titillating dream. She gave him a drowsy smile and trailed her hands up and down the expanse of his torso. He was indeed, a magnificent sample of masculinity, and she lowered herself more fully against him.  
Elizabeth's mouth fell open as the center-most part of her came into contact with his. Although they were still separated by layers of clothing she could feel the scorching heat, and she pressed down closer against it. A pulse of gratifying pleasure gamboled through her body, and the corners of her mouth drew back in a lazy smile as Booker let out a loud groan. She felt his grip tighten around her hips, and he pushed her down again. A rigid hardness had grown beneath her, and she ground herself against it before his arms shot out. A soft cry left her throat as he brought her back against his chest and kissed her again with hot, shallow licks. She trembled as he seemed to go farther, demanded more with her responses. The kiss went on and on as her small tongue began dart past the edge of his teeth, so engaged in the currents of excitement racing through her that it took a while to realize that both of his hands had slid around to cup her rear end.

Elizabeth pulled away then, raising her head as far back as she could. She couldn't stop the soft, elated giggle that came out of her mouth as she heard Booker's rumbling growl of displeasure, his hold on her tightening. He leaned forward and began to graze the center of her throat with teasing bites and licks that wracked her body with shivers. She could feel his fingers flexing in the layers of blue velvet as he adjusted his hold, and he brought her hips higher over his waist. Elizabeth pushed herself over his arousal again, increasing the delicious, intimate pressure against the part of her that had begun to ache. Uncontrollable hitching noises began to spill out of her mouth after every movement of the subtle rhythm his hands conducted.

"Elizabeth," he growled, his voice a dark, passionate timbre that made her fingers and toes curl. Breathing hard, she planted her hands in the middle of his chest and pushed herself upwards to look at him. His eyes were heavy lidded and filled with a gleam that was both drowsy and fiery, and there was a faint spread of color across his face. With a trembling hand she smoothed back his rumbled, sun-streaked brown hair, loving the raw, silk-like texture between her fingers. She let out a squeak as he adjusted his hold on her, straightening up from the slouch they had developed over the course of the last ten minutes. A few seconds passed, and Elizabeth became aware of the short, insistent tugging on the shoulders of the cropped, dark blue jacket she wore. She sat up straight and yanked the white cuffs over her wrists, and the garment was tossed aside.

Booker smoothed his hands up the graceful bow of her back, pressing his fingertips against her newly exposed spine and shoulder blades before he set to work tugging hard on the top rows of lacing on her corset. Her breath caught when she realized what he was doing, and the idea sent a thrill spinning wildly through her stomach. In turn she seized his blood-red necktie, her index finger curling deeply into the already-loose knot to further untangle it. When it lay in two separate parts at last, Elizabeth smoothed the fingers of both her hands over the now-rumpled collar of his shirt. The skin at the base of his throat was as sun-browned as his face and arms, and the first wisps of his chest hair curled around the dip between his collar bones. She loved the feel of it, a little coarse and so very male...she set to work undoing the first button, but her fingers shook too hard for success. She was forced to abandon the task when she felt the topmost section of her corset loosen, her breasts swelling forward to occupy the newly opened space. If it were possible for her to blush any harder she would have, and she twisted her fingers into the black linen of his shirt.

Booker brought a hand to her front and slowly dipped his fingers back into her bodice, his knuckles brushing the warm softness of her breast. It wasn't nearly enough, and his other hand soon appeared, tugging impatiently at the hem and shallow cups in the garment. Elizabeth closed her eyes and ground herself hard against him, not offering a single protest as her breasts rose above the edge of the corset. Any discomfort from the exposure or the bodice propping her flesh up evaporated when she finally dared to look at him. His eyes were heavy lidded as he looked over her with an expression of masculine appreciation. She gasped and clenched her thighs around his legs as hard as she could while his fingers traced the edges of her breasts, his thumbs gently indenting on fullest places while his index fingers circled the pale pink rims of her nipples. The feather-light touch made her squirm again, and she gave him a pleading look. His thumbs brushed over the little peaks, and Elizabeth watched them tighten as gooseflesh covered her arms and the back of her neck. He began to pinch and rub them, the skin turning rosy as it stiffened even more from his teasing. Just as Elizabeth felt she was going to scream, Booker leaned his head forward and opened his mouth around her left breast. His teeth nipped it, causing a bolt of white-hot pleasure to spark through her body.

Elizabeth flinched when his tongue brushed over the rising peak in slow, teasing circles, the hot wetness soothing after the hard pinch of a bite. She buried her hands in his hair and arched her back, her breath mixed with ragged sobs as his tongue and fingers continued to flick and stroke her nipples. Minutes passed, and Elizabeth hadn't realized he switched sides until he stopped, the cool air wafting over her glistening, stimulated flesh.

"Booker," she whispered. "Please..."

Booker's breath roughened as he brought his hands down her thighs, skimming through the heavy pools of blue velvet until he found the white, lacey hems of her underskirts. He began to search through the material, tugging and yanking while she swayed over him, catching herself from falling over by bracing her arms against the desk above his head. Somehow she managed to push her weight up onto her knees, allowing him to arrange her skirts so that the only thing that separated her nudity from him was the flimsy cotton of her drawers. He nuzzled her collarbones while his fingers gripped the flesh of her lower thigh, right above the place where they connected with her knees.

"Stay up," he grunted, squeezing hard as she lowered herself again.

Elizabeth moaned and shook her head, writhing over his hardness. "It aches so much, I...what should I do?"

"Shh," he coaxed, his hands traveling higher up her thighs and pulling her upwards again. "Let me take care of you."

Elizabeth gasped, the lace and rayon of her black stockings chafing on her legs and causing pinpricks of fire to burst over her thighs. His hands found the clips of her garters, and he hooked his fingers beneath them. She giggled when he undid two of the little metal clasps that connected the silk ribbons to her stockings, and he smirked with a devilish look that made a hot coil of tension wind deep in her stomach.

"Booker..."

The pace of her heartbeat was reverberating everywhere in her body, even in her ears and fingertips. The excitement and arousal was becoming too much...she never could have guessed that it was possible to feel so crazed, but the hot, whirlwind merging was what she'd hungered for all her life. His hands were climbing higher still, far beneath the lace trim of her drawers. His thumbs brushed over the seam of her legs, just beneath the jut of her hip bones. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself and fought to steady her breath as she felt the fingertips of his right hand ghost over the front of her thigh, while his other gripped her rear. There was no doubt that he was in control, but he handled her with the utmost care, and she soaked up the sensations as her body colored with the heat. He began to kiss her throat and upper chest again, leaving a damp trail and running his tongue across the smooth, humid planes of her skin.

"Booker...oh God, I can't...stop, just for a minute..."

"Not yet."

"Please, Booker - "

"Christ, you're close," he rasped, kissing her with an overpowering fierceness, his tongue sweeping in and out of her mouth with quick, possessive strokes. "You don't want me to stop yet, sweetheart...let me show you...trust me..."

A whimper wrenched out of her mouth and Elizabeth nodded, feeling safe under the chaotic storm within her body. His hand cupped the center-most part of her at last, his thumb and index finger sweeping together to part the soft, wet seam. She was mortified with the agony of modesty, but the pleasure he was igniting was too delicious, too wonderful to stop. She sat bolt upright, her back bowing and her head thrown back out when his fingers found a swollen, sensitive place above the entrance of her body. She couldn't stop the high-pitched cry that emitted from her throat when he began to stroke that small, hidden part of her, his touch confident and gentle. Pleasure seized her within seconds, rolling and racing through her until her nervous system was overwhelmed with it. Elizabeth's breath seized in her lungs, her mouth falling open as her body was wracked with intense, delightful shudders. Eventually, the paralysis began to loosen its hold, and her shaking knees gave out at last. She collapsed, causing him to grunt and tense in a brief discomfort.

"S-sorry..." she gasped as she fell forward against his chest, afraid that she'd hurt him. She tried to force herself to move off of him, but her mind's will had been firmly severed from her body.

"It's all right," he murmured, his deep chuckle eroding her anxiety as his hands drew out from beneath her skirt and tugged the material back down around her legs. Elizabeth sighed, her eyes lulling shut as she clung to the sweat-dampened fabric of his shirt. She felt his arms come around her back, the heavy, muscled weight of them a soothing comfort to her spent body.

Elizabeth spent the next minute or so listening to his drumming heartbeat. His...arousal was still prominent, his core hard and raised against his pinstriped slacks beneath her. She caught her lower lip in her teeth, a flurry of questions buzzing around her mind like lazy, summertime bees. Just as she had collected enough courage to ask the first one that had come to her, she became aware of the change in his body. He was tense, his grip on her tight and she raised her head up to look at him. His expression was well nigh murderous, his eyes narrow chips of green ice as he focused on something behind her. Fear washed over her like the shocking cascade of an ice-water bucket when she heard the ominous sliding click of a revolver's hammer being drawn back.

"Get up, you filthy bastard."

Cold, bitter mortification swallowed Elizabeth whole as she realized someone had found them, her face paling except for the flags of bright red color on her cheeks. Her hands shot to her corset, frantically tugging and pulling to right the garment. Her breasts still hadn't quite made it back into the padded cups when two pairs of foreign hands seized her arms and dragged her off of Booker. She immediately began to struggle, kicking her legs out in every direction as she was shoved into someone's grip. Her arms were pinned to her sides and her lungs were crushed in a man's rib-cracking grip, and she forced herself to be still, trying to get a look at the intruders.

Four Vox Populi had found them, most likely drawn to the frantic noise she'd been making. The men were dressed in filthy, soot-covered clothing, partially covered with pieces of crude, red-painted tin armor that was common to Vox soldiers. The leader of the group - a stocky, weather beaten man in his mid-thirties clutched a Repeater machine gun, while another two brandished a Broadsider pistol each. The one holding her had long, nail studded baseball bat in one hand. She watched it idly swing back and forth against her leg like a hellish sort of pendulum, the nails occasionally catching the fabric of her rumpled skirt.

Elizabeth jerked defiantly in her captor's grasp, her nose wrinkling at the sharp, rancid smell of blood and sweat coming off him. Her eyes began to water, both from the stench and emotional exhaustion. The past hours had been so rife with intense physical and mental feelings, and she knew she was close to the apex of her tolerance. All she wanted was some peace to sort it out...and she was starting not to care about what it would take to get some.

She looked at Booker, who had gotten to his feet. The dark expression on his face would have frightened the Devil himself, and there was a new kind of lethal stillness to him that she had never seen before. His fists were clenched, eyes narrowed and alert as they swept around the room, accessing the situation. The leader had his gun trained on Booker's chest as he crooned with laughter. The noise made Elizabeth's teeth clench.

"Where did you find this little bimbo?" the man asked, gesturing towards her with his gun.

Booker scowled, but didn't reply. The man shrugged and strolled over to Elizabeth, grabbing her chin and forcing her head up to look at her face. She refused to meet his eyes, keeping her attention locked on Booker's face.

"Take a gander at this boys!" he exclaimed, shoving a fistful of her hair out of her face. "Pretty little thing...Founder woman if I ever saw one."

The Vox leader brought his hand up to Elizabeth's partially exposed breast and grabbed it. She shuddered in revulsion, wincing as he callously pinched and squeezed her flesh. Booker swore violently and started forward, but stopped at the press of the man's Repeater machine gun on her temple. A broad grin that revealed a mouthful of bad teeth spread across his face. "Why don't you just have a seat there, mister."

Fueled by anger and humiliation, Elizabeth began to squirm again, her heeled boots stomping down as hard as she could. The man holding her seemed to anticipate the move because she couldn't quite find his feet as he began to lurch with her.

"Damnit, Jake, keep the girl under control will you?"

"Hold still, Elizabeth," Booker said, his voice solid and commanding.

She did so immediately, wishing that he would glance at her, do something to indicate his thoughts...the urge to cry was rising hard and fast in her throat, and she blinked to stave off the tears. It was all becoming too much for her to handle. She inhaled deeply, wincing at the unbearable poking of her bodice's crooked stays against her breasts and sides. Her head thrashed as her breathing became labored, but her eyes caught sight of Booker's hand. Black feathers were beginning to grow along his forearm, his fingers lengthening into black, talon-like claws. She raised her eyes to his face and met his gaze at last, his expression a confident, reassuring look she somehow understood. At his subtle nod, she sunk her teeth into the forearm of the man that held her. Blood and soot entered her mouth in a squalid burst as she clamped her mouth down as tightly as she could. The man shrieked in agony and released her instantly.

"Elizabeth, get down!"

Elizabeth threw herself to the floor and covered her head as a burst of gray smoke and a loud symphony of cawing filled the room. The Vox Populi began to scream as countless large black crows surrounded them, their glinting, razor sharp beaks pecking into every bit of flesh they could reach. She grunted in pain as the man the leader had called Jake tripped over her in an attempt to flee, his arms swinging around wildly as a dozen of the eerie creatures swooped all around him. She winced and looked away as the birds covered the man's entire upper body, leaving only his flailing legs exposed to physically express his agony.

From her place on the floor, Elizabeth could see the discarded shotgun that had been left by the camera, and she began to crawl towards it. The noise of the bird's beating wings flapping was like a chaotic wind blowing through dry leaves, accompanied by the sicking sound of beaks puncturing and tearing flesh. Elizabeth reached the gun at last and snatched it up. The remaining three men were scrambling in every direction as Booker's eyes and hands glowed with the Vigor's bright, hellish black energy. She opened the weapon's barrel and found it had a single bullet loaded into the chamber. She folded it shut and cocked it, careful to slide back against the wall and out of the Vigor's effective range before she got to her feet.

With bone-chilling calmness, Booker raised his Paddywacker and opened fire. Three successive explosions made Elizabeth's ears ring as blood and brain matter sprayed, the newly-dead bodies dropping to the floor in twitching heaps of ruined clothes and scrap metal.

Elizabeth swallowed as the Murder of Crows faded, Booker's eyes returning to normal and the talons retracting while the clusters of attacking birds evaporated with the smoke. Breathing hard, she waited for Booker to lower the weapon. He approached the fourth man, writhing and moaning in pain. Bile rose in her throat when she glanced at him...or what was left of him. The crows had been as merciless as they were ferocious, tearing off large portions of skin until there wasn't much left, the remains a bloody mass of exposed tissue. He decided that a fast, merciful end was prudent, and he unloaded a fourth bullet into the mass where the man's head had been.

It was a long moment before Booker moved again. When he did, he gave her a hard look that confused her...disgust? Elizabeth watched him flip open the Paddywacker's cylinder with a practiced jerk of his hand, and six empty bullet shells clinked to the floor by his feet. Her shoulders sagged as she sighed, relieved that the danger had finally passed. But a sudden bout of self-consciousness stole over her. Did he regret what they had been doing before the Vox intruders had interrupted them? Had she done something wrong or revolting? The idea made her pause, reflecting back on her wanton actions. Modest, decent women didn't...proposition men the way she had just done, and she hadn't been prepared for the wetness that had appeared between her legs. She'd been far too caught up in her passion to care or question it, and the bitter tightness of anxiety began to form in her chest. She hadn't wanted to be modest or decent when he'd pulled her into his lap...she'd wanted to further explore herself with him, to hell with the etiquette pamphlets. Now she was certain it hadn't been such a great idea.

Elizabeth frowned and bit her lower lip. Booker had been right...she didn't know what she'd asked for, blindly reaching forward like a spoiled child without sparing a thought to the consequences. She wasn't sure how to talk to him now, and the chill between them standing like a inch-thick sheet of ice.

She forced herself to look at him as he began to feed bullets into the gun's cylinder. His hands were unsteady, trembling hard enough that he dropped a bullet. It clattered loudly against the empty shells before rolling away and out of sight beneath the nearby desk. He cursed beneath his breath and tried again, his focus trained on the task and completely ignoring her. Her eyebrows drew together in a distressed knit, and she opened her mouth speak.

The words died when the sound of approaching footsteps reached her ears. A second later the turnstile spun again, and in staggered two more Vox Populi. They staggered to a halt and surveyed the room, the bloodied carnage robbing them of their all their faculties.

Booker seized on the opportunity and slammed the Paddywacker's cylinder closed. He shot the two Vox without hesitation and raised his free hand, a familiar, lava-like sphere of a Devil's Kiss bomb forming around his fingers. Heat filled the corridor instantly, any breeze coming in from the broken windows utterly smothered by the thick waves. Booker launched the Vigor at the turnstile, the fiery matter splattering across the white iron rungs and infusing them with a bright orange glow. It wasn't long before they grew soft and began to sag lifelessly towards the floor. Whoever was behind it screamed in terror and agony, and Elizabeth darted forward.

"Booker!" she called, throwing the shotgun at him. He caught the weapon and brought it forward, aiming it at the door and firing it with one deft motion. The bullet ripped through the ruined bars and sent clumps of melted iron flying down the steps. More screams and chaos ensued, and smoke began to filter into the corridor.

"Let's move!" he shouted, holding his arm out to her. She bolted past him, running to the desk that had the sheet of paper with the password combination. Fortunately it sat undisturbed on top of the journal still, and she took it. Seeing her discarded jacket on the floor by her feet, she stooped long enough to snatch it up and threw it over an arm. Praying that it was the correct set of numbers, Elizabeth ran to the elevator and frantically typed them onto the keypad. Booker stood with his back to her, discarding the empty shotgun and raising the Paddywacker towards the turnstile.

To Elizabeth's profound relief, 0451 turned out to be the correct combination, and the doors parted, rolling open far too slowly for her taste. She seized one of the leather straps crossing over Booker's back and pulled him inside just as someone was daring to put a foot through the massive, burning hole in the turnstiles. She pressed herself against the wall, the glass-lined surface like ice against her partially exposed back while Booker struck the round, red up button with far more force than necessary. The doors slid shut as more shouting voices filled the corridor, followed by an onslaught of violent banging on the door's glass and wooden panels as the elevator began to rise upwards.

Their escape ensured, Elizabeth allowed her arms to fall lifelessly to her sides, the crumpled paper with the password to drifting to the floor. She shivered violently and she realized her bodice was still in a state of disarray. Blushing hard, she turned so she faced the wall and took the ribbon-lined edges of the garment in her hands. She heaved a sigh when her breasts finally settled back in their correct place. Humiliation and embarrassment were beginning to light her on fire, and she felt a pulse of claustrophobia crawl through her head within the confined space of the elevator.

Elizabeth tensed when she felt Booker's presence close behind her. He said nothing as he gently smoothed out the corset's troublesome back, taking hold of the blue laces. He pulled each crossing line tight until he reached the top and retied them in a strong knot, taking care to make sure the white, lace-covered plate beneath lay flat against her spine. She tensed when she felt his hands cover her shoulders and his forehead rest against the topmost crown of her head. His breath was hot and uneven in her hair, and his voice rumbled with sorrow.

"Are you all right?"

"Y-yes," she replied, her fingers tightening in the folds of her jacket.

The silence that followed was the longest, most uncomfortable one Elizabeth had ever endured in her life. Uncertainty had filled her like a cup abandoned beneath a water faucet. She wished he would say something else, _anything _that would give her a clue as to how she was supposed to act, what he was feeling...

The enclosed elevator shaft ended, presenting them with a view of the tattered remains of the Grand Central Station isle. The final rays of sunlight were being smothered by a growing mass of black clouds, although whether they were from smoke or rain, Elizabeth couldn't tell. The Vox Populi were still running rampant, vandalizing anything they could get their hands on in between looting and letting off rounds of bullets. A glance upwards at the sky revealed a pair of red-covered zepplins hovering like vultures above the ruined buildings. Elizabeth shivered and threaded one of her arms through the sleeve of her jacket. Booker took a step back, allowing her the space she needed to put the garment back on. The rich, heavy velvet did nothing to warm the icy lump of dread that had frozen in her chest, and in the moments that followed, Elizabeth worked to settle her emotions.

They were almost out of Columbia - even from the elevator she could see the high stone towers of Comstock House in the fog-covered distance. Her father...and the answers she needed, were there. The confrontation would be an ugly affair, but any doubts that she would walk away from it a free woman were gone. By sunrise the next morning she would be on her way to Paris, away from Columbia, her father, the Songbird...

And Booker as well, it seemed.

* * *

**AN: AND DONE! Damn, what a crazy roller-coaster this was! **

**I have now reached a crossroads of sorts with this story...dear readers, I would love to open the floor to receive suggestions, comments, articles, videos, etc. on how the game may have ended or how YOU wanted it to end. I am writing this for YOU - fans of the Booker + Elizabeth ship. PLEASE share with me what you'd like to see! I admit to being a little intimidated about how to go about the upcoming parts...it's gonna be a challenge to write. **

**Much love to all! See you next time! **


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